Lotophagi
by Salty Peanuts
Summary: This is the story of the countries from their humble beginnings in the twelfth century, to the chrome-coated world of the year 3000. From the top of the first page, to the end of the last day. Mostly Rochu, PruHunAus, Gerita, and Fruk if you squint.
1. ,Callow

**Preface/Really long author's note:** This is my very first Hetalia Fanfiction (yay!), and I think I am going to be daring, and make this a really long writing project. This story is, as mentioned in the description, an overview of the tales behind our favourite Hetalia characters (mostly the Allies). The time period extends from around 1000-1100 to 3000-3100 A.D.

**I will not, in my story, be re-writing the plot of Hetalia.** That would be redundant, and boring! xD I will cover some historical events which the creators of Hetalia may have overlooked, or have not covered in much detail. Additionally, I will, at times, skip over to the canon plot, and add my own little twists. I will try to write said "twists" in a tasteful manner, to not insult the makers of Hetalia and my readers. I will not be skipping over large events like WWII. In fact, it will be a huge turning point in my story. Also, from what I know, the creators have not covered much of the Cold War, nor the period which came afterwards. But, I will be happy to write about them! :D

There are a few warnings that I must give before I begin telling this story. This is so that my beloved readers won't get confused, offended, nor spontaneously combust in anger and go off kicking the first cute puppy she sees.

1. I am not advocating my own political beliefs through "Lotophagi". It is not my mission to indoctrinate anyone, as this is purely a creative endeavor. That being said, I will try my best to stay politically neutral.  
>2. Since I will be writing about personified countries, which is a long stretch to begin with, I hope that you guys will read "Lotophagi" with an open mind. While this story is inspired by history, I will not be bound to it. This is about the <em>personal<em> lives of Ivan, Alfred, Yao, Francis, etc. I will try to incorporate a strong sense of humanism in these characters.  
>3. I am sorry, if my interpretation of history is not 100% accurate. While I try my best to be well-informed of the issues I write about, my field of discipline in school is not history. It's far from it, in fact. But, since I have already thought of the plot in my head, the show must go on.<br>4. I may have made your country a bad guy, but I need bad guys in my story to keep it moving... So... Yeah. But, I truly love all the characters that I am writing about equally, if that is any consolation. :D  
>5. Though this story has Rochu as the main pairing, their romance will come a little later, since I am starting from the beginning. I will try my best to stay loyal to this main pairing, and give you guys updates on them as the story moves along. Though, there are chapters where our heroes don't play a big role, or a role at all. Also, just as a warning, I think I may have had a little too much fun with China's personality. I think he will fit the story better if he is like this, and not how he is in the actual anime. Give him a chance, even if he may scare you off at first... You may end up liking him, since he <em>will <em>change. :) Also, **I have marked the Ro, Chu, and Rochu chapters with a comma (,) before the chapter titles.**

That being said, I hope you enjoy Lotophagi. I am very pleased to present this to you, as I have worked on it for a long time! I hope you guys will give me feedback, even just to say, "You suck ass and I hope you get molested by France and fall off a cliff." (Never said I wouldn't like that, even if I do fall off a cliff... :3)

Cheers,  
>Salty Peanuts<p>

Oh, and by the way, I don't own Hetalia, and this applies to all chapters of this Fanfiction.

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><p>The sun had finally ascended upon its eastern throne, showering the lands below with radiance. Its reign was eternal; its power, unyielding; much unlike all of the late emperors of the middle kingdom, who seemed to change as often as Wang Yao changed his clothes.<p>

For this dynasty, he was going to wear red. He had always loved the colour for its rich, daunting, commanding hue. He took the robe out of his closet gingerly, draped it over his naked shoulders, and carefully weaved his arms into the sleeves. This had been given to him by his late husband who had gone through great, perilous lengths in its acquisition, or so he had been told. Their marriage had shattered long ago, and his husband was long dead, leaving nothing behind but another addition to his wardrobe. Running long, slim fingers down the plane of flawless silk, Yao couldn't help but feel inadequate about himself. He looked to the mirror in front of him and frowned, slightly. It seemed as if his own body was fading into thin air, dissolving into the robe's crimson glory.

Yao sat down in front of his vanity desk upon which laid, in a row, seven pieces of hair jewelry. Grabbing the comb from the drawer, he began to relieve his hair. The jade felt cool against his skull, as he combed through the long, charcoal-black tresses that poured into his lap. Every last tangle, bump, must be smoothed out before the hairpins went in.

He didn't know why he spent so much time on vanity. His lover was going to come soon, which meant, all of this would be torn into shreds anyway.

During his grooming sessions, Yao often found himself staring into his own reflection in the mirror. Sometimes blankly, and sometimes intently, as if his own face was an inscrutable riddle. He didn't know what the fuss was; his face had looked the same for thousands of years. He had large, smoky eyes, a creamy complexion, modest nose, and soft lips. Nothing more than that. Putting in the final hairpin in its place, he decided that his current reflection was as good as he was ever going to look. Running his fingertips down the long golden beads which dangled from the side of his head, he smiled thinly.

In many ways, Wang Yao was a doll that never left its display shelf.

Becoming bored again, he walked to his work desk to finish a painting that he had been working on for the past few days. Though he usually did flowers, fish, or scenery, this one was of a full figured man. He had already drawn the bare outline, but had yet to give him any colour. He wore a long coat that went down to his knees, which Yao was beginning to paint beige. It must be really cold where he lived, since he had decided to give him boots and gloves. He might as well grant him a long scarf too, one which wrapped around his neck, and seemed to billow with the wind. The man had a slightly plump face, and due to a slip of his brush, his nose arched a little more broadly than Yao had intended. His hair was unusually short, with matted bangs, and Yao decided that his hair was just going to be left a light, off-gray colour. It looked nicer that way. Though there was no way to show this on paper, Yao had always imagined him to be taller and bulkier than a normal human. Taking a step back, he frowned scrupulously at his painting, batting his eyelashes. He couldn't help but think that he was painting an alien.

Quickly dismissing the silly thought, he looked down at the small dishes containing his available colours, then back up to his work of art. For some reason, giving those large, kind eyes a dark brown colour just didn't seem right. Though, Yao didn't know why. Every human had dark brown eyes, and since he was painting realistically, there was no reason why _he_ shouldn't be granted the same fate. But, then again, he was only a figment of Yao's imagination... And what bizarre imagination he had! No man in the entire kingdom would chop his hair this short, grow to be this big, nor have such an obscenely shaped nose. Therefore, Yao decided that painting his eyes the conventional colour would serve no purpose. However, it irked him that a piece of work must be left unfinished due to such a minor detail.

A pair of laden feet were making their way to his chamber door; the deep, slow thuds trembled the water in the dish. Immediately, Yao slid off his coat and placed it over his painting. Before he even had the chance to turn around, the door opened to reveal the man he had been expecting. He dashed over, and lead him into his bedroom. The man enclosed a pair of strong arms around Yao's tiny waist, spun him around, and pushed him into his chest.

Mongolia had a healthy, burly build, and was a head taller than China. He had long, wavy hair that he often wore in braids, but not today. China curled a long black strand around his finger, and smiled lazily at his lover. "You always ruin the fun," he pouted dearly, as his free hand traced, barely, the edge of the man's jawline, "Can't we at least chat a little?" Though, he already found himself fumbling with the buttons on Mongolia's jacket.

"What is there to say?" He asked, his voice thick and guttural. China felt his chest vibrating underneath his own fingertips, as they drew nonchalant lines across the sun-kissed skin.

Soon, fingertips were replaced by tongue and teeth, trailing lower and lower down his body, until China was on his knees. "Stop teasing," Mongolia growled impatiently. Pride had kept the moans from escaping from his throat, but he must admit that his lover was very good at what he did. Hell, if he weren't such a vixen, Mongolia would have crushed that pretty little neck of his ages ago.

But now, he feared that China would be the death of him. He grabbed a fistful of Yao's hair, at that thought.

The moment Mongolia began thrusting into his mouth, China pulled out.

"You know how much I hate it when you do that," China reprimanded, looking up at his defeated scowl. He put his hand down, rose, and muzzled Mongolia's anger with a darting kiss. Pushing the both of them onto his bed without breaking apart, China began frantically undressing his lover, as Mongolia, in turn, mauled China's clothes right off his back. Their hot bodies welded together in a frenzy, their limbs tangled in a knot.

This was one of the many benefits of Yao's country allying with his. He'd certainly had better. But, at least Mongolia was infatuated with him enough to be used at his disposal. All it took were some well-said lies and a little skin, and he had him wrapped around his finger.

Plus, it felt as if sex was the only thing Yao was good at anymore.

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><p>Kiku was by no means an apprentice from heaven. He lacked the inborn affinity for philosophy and literature, the nimble hands for painting and calligraphy, and not to mention, the physical breadth needed to stand against a hard punch.<p>

"Get up," Yao commanded, towering over the fallen boy.

Kiku's skinny arms could barely support his body weight for a few seconds before losing balance once more. Yao stood where he was, looking down at him blankly. The boy needed to learn on his own, because Yao wouldn't always be there to help him.

He was short, thin, and had pale skin. His black hair was left short, framing a square-shaped face. He was no apprentice from heaven, but he was Yao's, and that was good enough.

"You can't possibly fight any worse than how you recite poetry," he taunted, sneering. But, he was met with yet another stubborn, silent reply.

When he eventually regained stance, Yao wasted no time before launching another wave of attacks at him, each punch and kick more fierce than the last. Kiku countered them with his own, moving a little more diligently than the last round, until a tree stopped him from stepping backwards. He quickly averted from another punch aimed at his jaw, and Yao's bandaged fist landed into the tree instead. Yao quickly retracted his hand; an imprint was left in the hard wood.

"Good, you have finally improved," Yao said, impressed, "But you still lack physical strength, Kiku, and that very weakness will leave you to be a lion's bait."

"Yes, sensei," Kiku replied, meekly nodding his head.

Yao looked up. It was nearing midnight now, and the full moon was hidden behind a curtain of swirling clouds. Stars, like diamonds, spilled across the sky, as if a goddess had shattered her jewelry box. A flock of geese could be heard from the distance, crying into the bone-chilling winds. A few leaves were swept across the courtyard, and Yao suddenly felt a rush of cold down his spine. It was time for them to leave.

When China tucked Japan into bed that night, he almost felt guilty that he had been so harsh on the poor child. He was so young, too young to be holding the weight of an entire nation upon his shoulders. But, if he didn't learn the true nature of the world now, he would be bound for collapse. China just hoped, prayed, that when Japan grew up some day, he wouldn't lose sight of who he was. They all would, eventually, but Yao allowed himself to give optimism one last chance.

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><p>Like it so far? Hate it with a passion? Review!<p> 


	2. ,Roots

Thank you guys so much for the wonderful feedback, and the overwhelming support for this story so far. I hope this chapter won't disappoint too much. :)

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><p>Somewhere in the world was a nameless forest situated beside an anonymous lake, where the trees stood proudly, even against howling, frigid winds. The people in the nearby towns feared stepping foot anywhere near these grounds, because no one wanted to offend the great General Winter by trespassing on his holy fortress. Though, being the righteous and kind deity he was, he always made sure that the few people who had the heart to pay him a visit were sent back in the spring. Their defrosted bodies, limp and mouldy, floated down the river and back into civilization.<p>

Hidden behind this bulwark of trees was a single log cabin. Though humble in its size, it was a quaintly attractive home with a cute little door, a garden, and a chimney which always puffed out cinnamon-scented smoke every day at noon.

Ivan Braginsky was a boy who often wore a sweet, though awfully wide smile on his baby face. He had bright violet eyes which sparkled like polished jewels, even inside the cabin enveloped by smoke and steam from his sister's cooking. He was sitting by the open window, as the winds outside tousled his head of silver hair into even more of a mess. The family's pet fox laid in his lap, mewing in pain as he stroked its fur, rather roughly. It thrashed in Ivan's arms, trying to free itself, but its efforts had proved to be futile against his stubborn, almost mechanical strength.

Ivan wondered why it was struggling so much. It was a pet, and pets craved attention. He was giving it attention, and therefore, it should be happy, not sad! His smile turned upside down. Why was the world so confusing?

"Vanya! What do you think you are doing? You are going to kill it!"

Ivan's head rose slowly upon hearing the voice of his older sister, Yekaterina. She was standing in front of him, with hands on her hips and a displeased expression hanging from her usually serene face. She didn't look too happy.

"Huh?" He tilted his head like a curious owl.

She rolled her eyes. "Urgh, I knew it was a bad idea to let you play with Pyotr!" She scolded, taking the injured Pyotr into her arms and coddling him. "Or else, this would have been the sixth grave we've had to dig for our pets! Why can't you learn to control yourself, Vanya?"

Ivan, in turn, drooped his head like a flower missing sunlight. "Oh, please don't be mad," he replied softly through quivering lips, "I was trying to show how much I love it, like how I love my big sister... But it only wants to get away from me!"

Though she was pleased to hear what he had said, Yekaterina had already fallen for enough of his excuses already to let it go this time. Despite her brother's large, puppy-dog eyes gazing longingly at her, she knew she had a job to do. Setting the fox down, she scolded, reluctantly, "You ought to behave for the rest of the day, or you won't get to eat tonight!"

She hated threatening Ivan like that. But the child had been nothing but trouble from the moment he was born. He needed discipline like their garden needed warm sunny weather. With that thought, she turned around, and went back to her housework.

Ivan sighed. He knew that he had said something wrong, again. But, he just couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was.

It had always been like this. He tried his hardest to be a good boy and not make his big sister mad, but it never seemed to work. He would help her fetch water from the well when dinnertime rolled around, and put more wood into the hearth when it got too cold. But it wasn't his fault that the water bucket was so heavy and he'd end up spilling it all over the floor, nor that the fire was so angry that it'd jump out and attack him!

Sometimes, Ivan felt that he couldn't do anything right, and that Yekaterina hated him because of it.

There was another girl in the room who sat on the rug in front of the fireplace. She had been watching them the whole time, but stayed eerily silent in the shadows. Her name was Natalia, and was the younger sibling of Ivan and Yekaterina. She had a pair of dark sapphire eyes and long, platinum-blonde hair which reached to her knees. Ivan would not have noticed her if she hadn't risen up, walked over, and plopped her bottom right upon Ivan's lap.

He whimpered painfully and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Natalia. "Big brother will come outside to play with me, yes?" She had snaked her arms around his neck, and was whispering so closely into Ivan's ear that he could feel his skin melting from her hot breath.

Ivan admitted that Natalia could be a little strange at times. But, she was his little sister, and how could he deny her anything? "Of course, Bela," he replied in jolly tone, though silently hoped that she would get off him. His legs were falling asleep.

"Certainly not!" Yekaterina's voice echoed from across the room. "Father told us to not go outside today, and we're supposed wait for him until he gets home!" She abandoned dicing potatoes and stomped over to where her siblings were.

Natalia glared at her.

"Don't give me that look, missy," Yekaterina warned, pursing her lips until they were paper-thin, "Remember the last time when you and Ivan left without permission? Father nearly froze you two to death, and _ I _had to beg for your lives!"

Natalia pouted, and turned to Ivan instead, giving him a small peck on the cheek. "But you like me better than stupid... _Ukraine_, right?"

Yekatrina flinched from hearing her formal name, and turned her berating gaze to Ivan as well, who, by now, looked like he was about to cry.

"Right?" Natalia asked again, her voice reduced to a low hiss.

Before Ivan had the chance to answer, a gust of wind suddenly flew open the cabin door. It slammed against the wall, and fell on the ground with a deafening clang. Hail and snow tumbled into their warm little home, as a blast of arctic air pierced through Ivan's face like spears. Natalia screeched in fright, and hugged her brother to the point where he was almost choking.

"_You will come with me, Russia._" A hollow voice echoed from deep within the forest, the throat of winter. It wasn't a command, nor a suggestion. The voice had stated a simple fact.

Instinctively, Ivan peeled Natalia off of him, rose, and began taking slow, steady steps towards the exit. Yekaterina's face blanched in silent fear.

"Have you gone mad?" Natalia shrieked, grabbing hold of Ivan's arm with biting strength, which he shook off indifferently, "If you go with that wretched bastard, you'll be killed!"

"_Silence, Belarus._"

A drift of snow lifted the girl up from the ground, and threw her against the wall. After being driven face first into the hardwood, she fell, unconscious. Ukraine rushed to her side and shook her shoulders frantically to awaken her, but to no avail.

Russia acted like he saw nothing and continued to walk towards the voice, apparently deaf to Ukraine's calls for him to come back. Left behind him was Pyotr's corpse, mangled and bleeding. At least his death had been quick, a twist in the neck by a swift murderer.

A large pale hand manifested out of thin air and was presented to Ivan. He took it, and was led past the timberline. A few wolves howled in the distance, as if to initiate their own cruel welcome to the boy.

Despite all the bad things his sisters had said about him, Ivan had always thought that General Winter, his father, was not scary at all. Rather, he remembered him to be quite nice. He gave them a home to protect them against the cold, and enough food so they wouldn't starve. They really couldn't, and shouldn't ask for more.

As they walked through the forest, General Winter would sometimes cease his stride when little Ivan had to step over particularly large tree roots, to give him some room.

Though Ivan was not scared of him, he was curious about where they were going. He hoped that they would get there soon, because he didn't think that it was a good idea to stay out here for too long. Ivan rubbed his two hands together rapidly and blew into them. It was getting cold...

Trees bowed to yet another gust of wind that, upon its arrival, threw poor Ivan back at least two feet. "Oww," he whined, when his bottom met fresh snow. He struggled to get up and continued to awkwardly limp forward, nursing a sprained ankle.

General Winter turned, looked down on him, and growled in displeasure. "_What am I going to do with you, Russia?_" His voice slapping Ivan in the face, "_The Tatars are going to invade our motherland, and... Look at you... Your pathetic frame can't even withstand a simple stroll in the woods, let alone lead armies into battle!_"

Ivan blinked a few times, trying to dust away the few tears that had froze immediately along his lashes.

What he said wasn't very nice...

"W-well, I-I think we should all be friends..." He suggested shyly, burying his face into his scarf, in case he had said something wrong again.

There was silence. Then, a wave of thunderous laughter echoed through the forest, making the trees shudder in fear, as they shook off the snowflakes that had collected on the branches. Reindeer pranced away, in search of peace.

"_Naive child, you think they will spare you any mercy?_" He roared, thrusting Ivan onto the ground again, "_No, they have already slaughtered hundreds of villages, set fire to them until there was nothing left but dust!" _Ivan could no longer keep the tears from rolling down his cheek now. "_What makes you think that they wouldn't do the same to you?_"

Ivan bit down on his lips so hard that they bled, as to not let his big fat mouth get him into trouble again. Instead, he sat where he was, staring emptily at the back of his father's head, hoping he would not be mad anymore.

After the General's angry storm had subsided, silence began to trickle in once more. All was still, frozen in time, except for the pitter-patter of water from defrosting icicles tapping on stone.

"_I won't always be around to protect you_," General Winter said after a while, gently placing his hand on Ivan's slumped shoulder, "_You must learn to take care of yourself, and your sisters."_

... Did Father just touch him, and in a kind way too?

Oh yay!

He decided that he liked his father very much after all. He looked up at General Winter and gave him a slow, dreamy smile.

For the first time months, sparrows began to sing. New leaves were budding, and the snow that Ivan had been sitting on melted through his pants. General Winter, who knew that his time had come, turned and walked away without saying goodbye.

"Wait, where are you going?" Ivan cried, rising up to run after him.

He couldn't just leave! Ivan had never even ridden a horse before in his life, let alone lead a whole army into battle!

...He did mean for him to go to war, right? 'Cause those bad guys sounded really mean, and even though he had always hated fighting, Ivan knew he would, to the death, if anyone dared to harm his family.

He tried to grab his father's coat sleeve in search for answers, but only found thin air. General Winter had faded away, leaving him all alone, again. Ivan stomped his feet in frustration, but only caused the puddle under his boots to splash cold, muddy water onto his face. What was he going to do now? He knew nothing of warfare, and he was, well, scared...

"_Ivan, you must, for the blood of our ancestors that runs in your veins._"

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><p>Borrowed the phrase, "throat of winter" from a song with the same name by a Swedish metal band, Opeth. Shameless advertising? I think so! Check 'em out! !,,!<p>

Thanks for reading, everyone! Please review! I promise that Ivan and Yao will meet. I just have to quickly introduce everyone else. Which will be soon. xD

(You know I won't update unless there is some feedback... :3)


	3. Licorice

There was a dinky little tower in the countryside which stood a couple of miles away from the water well, a few hundred yards away from Sir Ulric's castle, and only inches away from a patch of red roses that encircled the tower's perimeter. The roses were so beautiful that one would not hesitate to pick one to bring home to his sweetheart, or for the more morally intact, his mother, if it weren't for the jagged, fang-like thorns.

"_Get_ _the hell_ _off_ _my property_ _before_ _I_ _bite your hand_ _off, you_ _bloody wanker!" _quoth the crazy plants.

The inside of the tower was not any more tolerant of guests. As one walked in, he wouldn't be greeted by a welcome mat nor a hearth aflame, but by silence and dust. A lot of dust. It wasn't that the homeowner lacked the monetary means to hire a maid. No, he just didn't want _anyone_ stepping foot into his home, if that point had not been previously made clear.

No furniture dressed the living room, nor were there any windows that allowed enough light in order for the visitor to discern the aforementioned fact. Even though the room was empty, it felt as if there was someone watching the visitor's every move. But, of course, that was just silly paranoia.

As one went up the winding, creaking stairs while praying that they wouldn't collapse, one would see that no paintings decorated the hallway. An old door was waiting at the end of the struggle, and if the dear visitor valued his life, he would think twice before opening it.

The morning breeze, entwined with soft, fuzzy rain, rolled into attic through an open window. It also brought along the aroma of fresh soil and blue English grass, and perhaps, a new outlook on life. The threadbare curtains still danced with the wind, despite having frayed against the grain of time.

Beside the window was a desk, on which stood some rather peculiar objects. There was a rack of glass tubes containing liquids of various colours, and a larger flask that held a stock of this clear liquid that was probably not advisable to drink. A grimoire with yellowing pages had been laid open, and beside it was a quill and a full bottle of ink. Half a dozen mythical creatures were floating about the room, though most of them were staring expectantly into a cauldron which hung above a roaring flame. A boy, the sole occupant of this house, was sitting in front of the desk, intently observing the bubbles that were oozing out of the test tube he held in his hand. He squinted and wrinkled his nose at the putrid scent before he set it down on the rack and scribbled something into his book.

"Yes, I am almost done, Minty, stop rushing me!" Arthur said to the Flying Mint Bunny, who was flying in circles above his head, urging him to finish his work sooner so they could frolic outside like he had promised.

Carefully taking out the tube containing a bright green solution, he stood up and walked over to the big black cauldron which could very well serve as a bathtub for a filthy little tyke like him. He poured the contents into the steaming, rumbling concoction, looking away as he did. Running over to his pantry of potion ingredients, he grabbed two tails, a tongue, as well as a skein of dried herbs, and dumped them all into the cauldron. Huffing and puffing from his efforts, he stood back and watched the dark depths devour its peace offering. When the stertor eventually died down, Arthur returned to observe. Though, there was no doubt that the experiment had been done correctly. Arthur Kirkland didn't make mistakes.

A whirlpool had formed in the innermost core of his concoction, and, due to bad judgment, he reached a hand slowly into the swirling orifice. What felt like another hand immediately grabbed his wrist, and began to pull him in. Arthur shrieked and pulled back as hard as he could. Minty also tried to help, grabbing onto his cape and flapping its wings furiously. Their combined effort eventually succeeded, and Arthur toppled back and hit his head against the wall.

Rubbing his bruised skull, he grumbled, "Never try that again, eh?" Minty nodded earnestly in agreement.

Ever since Arthur Kirkland's birth, people had told him that he was... special, that he wasn't human. He, along with his father, siblings, and all of their ancestors were nations, wrought from the very soil that the martyrs had fought for. Patriotic blood ran in their veins, and their hearts were eternally connected to the lands they were destined to embody. Arthur relished in England's joy and felt England's pain, because he was, England.

Though this might sound really impressive to any other person, his life was really not all that fine and dandy. Ever since the dawn of civilization, every aspect of a nations life had been controlled by his boss, and in Arthur's case, by the King. Arthur had no freedom, and hadn't twopence worth of say in the passing of those absolutely ridiculous laws that did nothing but oppress his people. His bloody majesty did whatever he very well pleased, while his people, and Arthur, were left to suffer.

Which was why, no one could blame Arthur for running away and locking himself up in this tower for so long. He wanted nothing to do with his goddamned boss. He was through with having to witness all the atrocities that those snot-nosed elites afflicted upon his people, while being completely powerless to help them. He hated that he couldn't do anything for his own country; the only purpose to his existence was to have his face carved into every copper coin. Glorious, wasn't it?

Now that Arthur had finally found his happy place, God forbid his wretched boss from ever stepping foot into his flat, lest he be turned into a toad!

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><p>For as long as he could remember, Arthur had been curious about the biology behind his immortality. And, having a young, vibrant mind, Arthur much preferred researching and reading into this issue to wasting his life away in that opulent hellhole.<p>

So, Arthur had travelled to faraway lands and studied under numerous wise men. He consulted scrolls and tomes which stacked up to his own height, and developed extensive proficiency in fields spanning from alchemy to divination, from metaphysics to astronomy.

He knew that his research was all empty knowledge, things for which he had no use in real life. Though, for Arthur, studying about himself had proven to be a viable distraction from having to accept who he really was.

But, the more Arthur knew, the more he hated himself. No matter how many star charts he drew, or how many potions he made, he was eventually forced to accept that he probably was going to spend the rest of eternity alone. He had always been the black sheep among his siblings, and ever since the "incident" happened, they all hated him. He couldn't bring himself to befriend humans either, as his friends' inevitable deaths would probably be too much for him to handle. Which was why, for the past few decades, he had abandoned his research to embark upon a new project.

And now, I must ask the reader to bear with me and to accept the fact that Arthur Kirkland was by no means insane.

It had been told to him that the vitality of immortals, the very thing that kept them alive, rested in the vitality of all that pertained to the nation itself. The movement of feet walking to and fro, the sounds of peoples' voices, the rolling of carts and carriages down the cobblestone streets in London. Those were what kept his heart beating.

But Arthur believed that there must be a way in which he could harness this energy, and use it to break himself out of this immortal prison. This, in essence, was what he had always wanted.

He wanted to be human.

He would much rather have a finite life and be happy and free, than have to live like _this_ forever.

Of course, he wasn't going to become human immediately after he finished his project. Instead, Arthur had decided to give this "life as a nation" thing a bit more patience. After all, he had forever to decide when it was going to happen, and maybe his life was going to get better in the coming decades, centuries, or millenniums. But, he supposed that this work in progress was more to serve a comforting purpose than anything else. He could go about his life with birds and bees, if he knew that there was always a way out...

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><p>It was one of the few summer days where the sun was not so rude to be burning everything under it, nor too lazy to not appear at all. On days like this, Francis Bonnefoy often enjoyed a lonely but cheerful picnic outside, while sitting on a damp rock and dipping his tired feet into the Seine river.<p>

All it took were a few crafty minutes for him to finish the wreath of flowers that he had been making for his hair. Giving it a kiss, he rested it gently upon his blond head and stared into his reflection in the water. And, of course, He liked what he saw. Francis had always thought, no, _knew_ that he was going to become a handsome man when he grew up.

He giggled. _What a sinful, sinful thing_ _to_ _admit, even_ _to himself!_

His friends thought that he was a little too queer for their tastes, too "prissy", they called it? But, no matter— he was gorgeous, and they were jealous...

He recalled hearing a story of this man in ancient Greece who, like him, was so beautiful that he couldn't stop staring at his own reflection, and the poor soul eventually died because of it.

Francis snorted ungracefully at the thought. Such idiocy! To think that a mere mortal would even dare to believe that he could attain true beauty! They _age_, for goodness' sake. Their hair would fall out, and their eyes would lose their shine. How could any human be truly beautiful, when afflicted with Father Time's not-so-fabulous curse?

He smiled pleasantly to himself. At least that wasn't in _his_ worries...

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><p>Well, I apologize if this chapter is a little dry. It is kind of important information, and I figured I might as well present it a little earlier on in the story, rather than slapping it on in the last minute. Thanks for reading, and, if you believe I deserve it, please please please please pleasepleaseplease give me some feedback!<p>

Midterms are coming up, but I will try to update as punctually as possible. But I PROMISE that Yao and Ivan will meet soon, as soon as I finish the next chapter, which will be that last of the introductions. Cheers!


	4. Eden

A/N: Here I present to you two long chapters. My fingers are all burnt out. Holy crap. **The Rochu chapter is the next one.** This is about Pru, Hun, Aus, and friends.

Edited this on 2/12/12- Oh my God my grammar is terrible when I am rushing...

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><p>It was just another ordinary day. The sun was shining awfully bright in the pale blue sky, and the breeze was light enough to still be pleasant, but wouldn't leave one's hair in a terrible mess. The water in the river sparkled as it flowed lazily down the hill and deep into the forest. Since it was still early in the summer, flowers dotted the smooth green fields in red, yellow, and even violet. The bushes beside the river were covered in them too, but they were white.<p>

Maybe the round stone structure sitting on the riverbank _shouldn't_ be called a fort, but everyone called it that anyway. It was too small, and not scary-looking enough to be called a fort. It had only been tossed together by a few of the guys who wanted to set fence around their conquered regions, but were themselves crude architects. This structure consisted of nothing but a line of boulders picketed around a small circular area, with an opening that faced the bushes. One could easily walk in and sit upon the bulwark itself, as it wasn't built very tall. A few more boulders were placed inside the enclosure as makeshift seats, and a fire was always lit in the centre, even during the day. It wasn't much, but for everyone in the club, the stone fort was a very cozy place to be.

There were four kids sprawled around inside, and two were sitting on the the edge of the "wall", facing the centre. The first one, Spain, was a boy with dark skin and mousy brown hair, and was wearing a plain grey tunic that was tattered at the sleeves. His companion was another boy named France, who seemed too skinny and tall for his age. He wore a similar outfit in light blue, and had longer, blond hair. The two friends were swinging their legs up and down boredly, occasionally pointing and chuckling at whatever was happening at the centre of the ring.

"Speak, heathen!" a loud obnoxious voice demanded, "What brings you to these holy lands?"

Everyone's head turned to where a kid named Prussia was standing in a dramatic fighting stance. He valiantly poked the tip of his toy sword right at the chest of a short, quivering newcomer called Poland, who looked like he was about to wet his pants. No one could blame him for looking like that, especially when Prussia was that scary, when provoked. His garnet eyes flashed malevolently as he stared at Poland's shrinking form. The bleach white robe he wore accented his albino features, donning him in a seraphic, though eerie glow under the sun.

No one else in the group dared to step in to help, lest they feel their ring leader's evil wrath. The kids were only playing, but sometimes, they could really get into it.

"Well, I-I am h-here to establish diplomatic relations with the western regions," Poland managed to stutter out.

"Wrong answer!" Prussia barked in reply. He threw his sword on the ground, and walked closer to Poland, who had now fallen onto the ground in fear and was trying to crab walk away from what looked like living hell.

Poland's green eyes darted around the ring, desperately looking for someone who seemed brave enough to stand up to the red-eyed devil in front of him. France and Spain stepped down from their individual thrones, as if to respond to to Poland's silent pleas. Instead, they grabbed him by one arm each, plucked him up from the ground, and held him tightly so he wouldn't escape from Prussia.

Austria, who had been hiding in the bushes all this time, sighed to himself. If it weren't for his boss who demanded that he made friends with these fellow countries, he wouldn't even be out here, crouching under a thicket of leaves and white flowers, trying to not make a sound so he wouldn't end up like poor Poland. Austria didn't want to play with these dirty kids, and not to mention, his crazy cousin, Prussia, with whom he'd never had a good relationship.

Austria, being prim and prudish, wasn't very good at making friends, especially not with savages like them. There was no way he was going to endanger his life like this, just so he could report back to his boss at the end of the day!

"Gilbert!" A bright, female voice called from down the hill. Prussia immediately turned back upon hearing his human name. The voice belonged to Hungary, the only female in the group, who was sprinting up the hill at breakneck speed.

Gilbert's constitution completely changed upon seeing the brunette girl. His thin, ash coloured lips cracked into a wide smile as he eagerly waved at her. "Liz!" He hollered at the top of his lungs, as he ran to meet her downstream, abandoning his bullying victim like an old toy.

Austria didn't know Hungary very well, other than that she and Prussia had been partners-in-crime since birth. They did everything together, while Austria was often left to be their punching bag.

The two firecrackers collided into a rough, tackling embrace. Breaking apart, Hungary said sheepishly, "Sorry, I slept in," and laughed a little.

"Whatever, princess," Prussia scoffed, before receiving a well-aimed punch in the face from his grimacing friend.

"I'm not a princess!"

"Okay, fine..." Prussia grumbled, rubbing his bruised cheek and hissing in pain.

Shaking her head, Hungary slapped an arm on Prussia's slumped shoulders and walked him up the hill.

Everyone waved to them as they jumped over the wall and into the fort. France even tried to blow a kiss at Hungary, but was stopped by Spain pinching him in the arm. With her hands proudly on her hips, Hungary's eyes looked around her clubhouse. She saw that everything was in its place, except for Poland sulking in the corner. She went to investigate, assuming that the terrified look that was beginning to grow on his face was from something other than a tall, strong girl walking towards him with a sword strapped on her hip.

"What do you think you're doing?" Prussia snarled, which Hungary ignored.

"Hey, I haven't seen you around here before, what's your name?" She asked the shaking boy.

"F-Feliks."

"Oh, welcome to the group, Feliks! Come, let's go meet everyone." She seized one of Feliks's hands, unfurled his fingers, and dragged him to where everyone else was standing. Feliks tried to keep up with her long legs as she walked, but failed miserably, as he was just so short. He would have tripped over one of the stone seats if it weren't for Hungary's man-like strength that hoisted him up from a fall.

"Okay, so there is Francis," Hungary began, grabbing Poland's wrist to gesture a wave, to which France responded half-heartedly. "And that is Antonio..._Spain, say hi!_" Hungary growled at the poor boy who had dozed off. He quickly snapped out of it and said "hi" to Poland, who had begun to look a little more relaxed.

"And Vash..." Switzerland nodded.

"And the Netherlands..." Another wave.

"And that is Gil!" Hungary finally pointed to the rather displeased-looking Prussia, who folded his arms and humphed at Hungary's traitorous behaviour.

"And Gil is also going to be a good boy and welcome the new kid," Hungary said matter-of-factly, walking over to stand in front of him, despite that Prussia now looked angry enough to throw one of his legendary tantrums.

"Why's that?"

"Because I said so!" Hungary yelled, as if that was a good enough reason.

"No!" Prussia yelled back, almost jumping two feet up the air in fury, "We can't just let anyone in our group! He, he is a... _nonbeliever_!"

Austria shook his head. The boy was such an insufferable brat!

Hungary turned silent for a while. Then suddenly, without warning, Hungary began to giggle. Prussia raised a white eyebrow, and everyone else in the group looked at each other worriedly, wondering what had gotten into their usually tomboyish friend. Hungary's face fell into a rather... tender expression. She wiggled her index finger at Prussia, vying for him to come hither. His gaze narrowed suspiciously, but leaned his face towards Hungary's smirking lips anyway. As Hungary whispered into his ear, his eyes looked like they were going to shoot right out of his head.

Whatever she said, it did the trick. Prussia immediately lost all of his rage and succumbed to being surprisingly... nice. He and the group sat down and welcomed their new friend Poland, pretending that the previous episode never happened. In the blink of an eye, everyone was talking, laughing, and making the newcomer feel like he had been one of them all along. It seemed like the only person who thought the whole thing was a little weird was Austria, who was still hiding in the bushes.

They were now explaining the rules of the game to Poland, which was as follows—

Everyone in the group, including Austria, lived on a huge mass of land that was collectively named "Europe." However, the land was divided into countries that were ruled individually by these kids, and among a few others whom Austria had never met. Just northwest from here stood a few islands which were altogether known, creatively, as the "Islands." They were ruled by a small family who preferred to keep to themselves. No one here seemed to have had any close encounters with them, perhaps except for France. In the northwest regions were barren landscapes upon which the kingdom of Scandinavia stood proudly, while Italy was in the south. To the east were the God-forsaken Slavic lands, cold and unforgiving. Not much were known about them either, except that they were owned by two sisters and a brother. According to Poland, they were not very friendly people, and according to Prussia, they were "heathens," and must be "mercilessly annihilated."

Oh, Prussia, Prussia, Prussia... Austria dunked his face into his palm. How in the _heavens_ did that brat become Germania's favourite grandchild?

After the fall of the ancient empire, Prussia had inherited a good chunk of central Europe, while Austria was left with a pitiful fraction. It was land Austria couldn't do much with either. It was full of mountains, and the climate wasn't too warm.

He should have been given a better (bigger) house of his own, instead of having to pay rent to Holy Rome every month, while Prussia, on the other hand, was free to roam wherever he pleased.

Prussia didn't deserve anything he owned. He was just a moron. A conceited, self-centred moron, who got too lucky! Urgh, look at him now, going on one of his melodramatic tirades about how he and his Teutonic Knights won this harsh battle, as if taking the lives of innocent people in the name of honour was something to brag about.

Prussia, _that god-damned son of a—_

"Hey! I think I see something hiding over there!" France piped up randomly, gesturing to the white-flowered bushes beside their fort.

Hungary squinted her eyes towards where France was pointing. "Yeah!" She agreed, "I think someone's spying on us!"

"Huh? I'll go check it out." Prussia stood up and walked over to where Austria was hiding. Of course, Austria, who had never been physically apt, tried to make a run for it, but failed pathetically. Prussia's hand, or rather, claw, grabbed Austria's cape and yanked him back. His heels slipped in the mud, and he lost balance.

Prussia bent down in front of the fallen boy, "Going somewhere, fancy pants?"

Austria stubbornly held his tongue, looking away from that disgusting smirk.

A few of the other boys had begun to gang up on him now. At least two more were walking towards Austria, cornering him to make sure he didn't get away. Having witnessed Poland's fate, Austria knew exactly what they were going to do to him. Not to mention, he also knew how much Prussia delighted in the fact that they were cousins.

"The hell were you trying to do? Spy on us?" Prussia scoffed, "You know we don't allow dirt bags like you in here..."

Austria would have dared to say, "Look who's talking?" if it weren't for a fist that dove straight into his cheek. Prussia laughed proudly at his deed, while the other boys in the circle took the liberty to throw in punches and kicks of their own.

"Ah! Oh God. I'm sorry... Stop, please! I beg of you!"

"Don't be scared, Roddy-potty!" Prussia sang as his boot made contact with Austria's face, "We're just playing..."

Everyone else laughed in agreement.

Austria couldn't do much but lay on the ground and clutch his head, hoping, praying that they would stop soon. He tried to swallow the vomit that was rising in his throat, but couldn't, as it was being physically punched and kicked out of him. He knew that they weren't, or at least Prussia, wasn't just "playing." He wanted him dead.

"Guys, stop it! You are going to kill him!" Hungary cried.

Prussia put his fist down and turned to face her. "Hey Liz, don't you want to throw in a punch or two yourself at the bastard?"

Hungary ran up to them, and shoved France and Spain away from Austria, who was collapsed on the ground, shaking and whimpering in pain. His hair was torn, and his face was bruised. Without saying anything, she pulled him up from the bloody ground. Austria reached a dirtied hand up to adjust his spectacles that had been knocked askew, and defiantly wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.

Hungary looked up at the boys. "Geez, can't we stop being so mean to other people? It is no fun if we end up scaring everyone away," she said worriedly, gingerly brushing a strand of hair from Austria's sweaty face. "We _are_ countries, but we can't just go and attack anyone who comes onto our land. Then, who would want to be friends with us?"

France and Spain stayed quiet for a few seconds, looked at each other, and both nodded apologetically. Prussia stared at Hungary like she had ten heads.

Hungary looked down at Austria, who was ready to collapse any time now. "Come Roddy, let's get you home." Hungary led him downhill towards where her horse was tied to a tree.

"Liz, come back here!" Prussia commanded, following after them.

Hungary helped a struggling Austria up her horse, before skillfully mounting it herself. "Yeah, I gotta go now. I'll see you later, Gil."

"Oh no you don't!" Prussia countered, climbing on top of his ride as well. "I'm not going to let you go home with that prick!"

"Shut up! You're not the boss of me!" Hungary hollered back, sticking out her tongue.

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><p>Oh yes Liz better know that Gil was the boss of her! Okay, maybe not her boss, but at least her best friend, and best friends didn't betray each other like that!<p>

It had _always_ been awesome Gilbert and his princess Elizaveta versus the world, since the whole freaking world began! They had sworn to be friends with their own blood for God's sake!

Which is why Gil, for the past hour or so, had been loyally following Liz and Roddy as they made their way up to his big fancy mansion. Clutching his bow tightly with his one hand, and grabbing his horse's halter with the other, Gil was determined to protect Liz from any scummy scheme that his crazy cousin was trying to play. She may have been a total doo-doo head for having picked Roddy's side, but Gilbert Beilschmidt was no doo-doo head. He had _promised_ to be her friend for all eternity, and breaking promises were... well, for people like Roddy over there!

Roddy was beginning to look a little better, now that they had finally reached Austrian territory. Liz had tried to make small talk with the boy to help him forget, and found that he wasn't actually a bad person. He was just really misunderstood, like Gil was.

"Yeah, don't mind Gil." Liz began, making her horse turn down the block, "You know him, he can be a bit of an asshole sometimes."

"I realize that, Liz."

Austria dared to turn his head back, and his eyes met directly with Prussia's blood red ones. Despite him being at least ten feet away, it felt like he was right beside him. He turned around and immediately leaned closer into Hungary's strong arms.

"But, I think you and him should just get to know each other better." She said kindly, "Then you guys might finally hit it off. I mean, he isn't _always_ such a dick, and you are a really sweet guy yourself."

Hungary giggled after her comment, while Austria felt a slight tug in his heart. It was a soft, almost playful squeeze at his insides, like a butterfly landing on a flower, or the first drop of April rain on his face. He liked it.

"Ah, here we are!" Hungary exclaimed, before Austria had the chance to thank her for her previous compliment.

They had stopped in front of Holy Rome's house, a huge mansion with even bigger front and back yards. Though Austria only occupied a small section, he still felt proud to live inside it.

He turned back to Hungary and smiled, but not without a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. "Thank you for bringing me home, Elizaveta."

He climbed down from her horse, struggling a bit.

"Wow, your house is so big!" Hungary gasped. It was nothing like her own shady, beaten hut. This house actually had a solid, wooden door, and not to mention, a legitimate roof.

"Oh yes it is," he agreed, "Um," he looked away and mumbled softly, "If you want, you are always welcome to visit me..."

Hungary gasped, "Really?"

"...Yes." Austria gave her a rare smile.

"Oh, thank you, I will!"

_She's so pretty... _He thought.

"Okay, well I have to go now! So I will see you around?" Hungary said after a while, snapping Austria out of his stupor, "Right, and you can come hang out with us any time you like. I'll go talk to Gil, and if he tries anything again, he'd have to hear it from me!"

Just like that, Hungary turned her horse around and galloped back to Prussia. Austria absentmindedly waved to her retreating image, to which the back of her head did not respond.

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><p>Liz had been riding side by side with Gil for a while now. None of them knew where they were, nor where they were going. It all started with Gil saying "let's go that way," as he pointed in an odd direction, and they hadn't looked back since. The wind had lulled into a gentle breeze by now, as the night descended its indigo cloak upon the world. Stars streaked the clear sky like a glittering band of silk, as the full moon hung upon its dark canvas. Looking up at the round object, Gil wished it was a wheel of cheese.<p>

He was really hungry now.

Deciding to take a break, he dismounted his horse, with Liz doing the same. He sat down on the plush grass beneath a big tree, and patted the spot next to him for her to sit down. Opening his brown knapsack, he eagerly searched for the couple of apples he had picked earlier today. Holding both of them in his hand, he considered for a while, and handed the slightly bigger one to Liz.

"Thanks."

Ever since Austria had been sent home, they hadn't been talking much. No worries, they weren't mad at each other or anything. They just didn't feel like talking. Though there were times when they were together and couldn't shut up, there were also times when they needed some quiet.

Taking the first crunchy bite from his apple, Gil looked to his friend. Nothing was wrong with her or anything, she looked fine. Except, she had lost her ponytail to the wind, and her light auburn hair was down to her shoulders. Her green armour was clean and tidy, and her boots were tied. He took another bite, and rubbed his runny nose. Gil didn't know what compelled him to stare at her, other than that he felt like it.

Liz noticed what Gil was doing, but ignored it. It had been a long day, and she was tired. After sighing in relief, she tossed her apple cork onto the grass, and turned her head to him. Her eyes rolled across her friend's body, which was literally glowing under the moonlight.

"Get a tan, whitey." She sneered.

"Pft," He turned to face her, "Well _you _better not stay out in the sun too long. You're starting to look like dirt."

Liz gave his arm one hell of a bruising pinch.

"Ouch! Okay, fine, you're as pale as me."

"That's even worse." She muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Whatever." Gil also tossed his finished apple aside, and sat up.

He suddenly remembered something; a thin smirk played upon his face. He rolled over, and without warning, straddled Liz and pinched her waist tightly with his knees.

"What the hell are you doing?" Liz screeched, struggling and trying to shake free from his grasp. Gil held his arms against the tree trunk, trapping her.

"Prussia! Let me go!"

He laughed like a villain. "You better not forget, _Hungary_, you said you'd kiss me."

Hungary stopped struggling in the blink of an eye, and her cheeks began to glow a deep red. "W-what?"

"I allowed Feliks to come play with us, because you said you would give me your first kiss. Which means, you're gonna keep to your promise, like a good warrior should." Prussia explained, like she was three years old.

He cupped her hot face, which began to tighten uncomfortably at his touch.

Liz looked around frantically for an escape route, but there was no way around it. It had only been a spur of the moment when she had made Gil that offer, in order to save Feliks from, well, dying.

Yes, that was it. She only agreed to kiss him to save someone. She was only trying to be a hero, was all. It was her knightly duty to save helpless people from impending danger.

She and Gil were just friends, like they always had been. Just friends...

Ah! That damn bastard now had his lips puckered out and was set for landing! Reflexively, she stuffed her palm into his face as hard as she possibly could. Gil fell back in a half somersault, and when he rolled back around, his face was covered with a red imprint of her hand. Growling, she wiped her hand dry of his cooty-filled saliva.

Prussia howled in pain, clutching his face. "You witch! You big fat meanie!" he cried into the chilly night air, "Who would want to kiss _you_ anyways?" He hissed and massaged his swollen cheek. "I hope you never find a boyfriend! Never get married! You'll just end up as a lonely little country for the rest of your life!"

Hungary sighed. She _did_ say she would do it, and she always kept her word. Shaking her head, Liz walked to where he was, and sat back down. Gil was her best friend, and the only person in the world she really, truly trusted. She figured that she'd have to do this at least once in her life, and if it was to be with anyone, she would rather do it with Gil. At least she trusted that he wouldn't go off and embarrass her or something.

"Hey, Gil?" She shook his shoulders, but received no response. She shook them again, and he looked up. His face was red, and not to mention, tear-stained.

"Whaddya want now?"

She didn't answer, and leaned slowly towards him. She was just going to get this over with. It couldn't be that hard. She wasn't going to smack their mouths together passionately or anything, so she had plenty of time to plan ahead, and ensure a safe landing. Liz was relieved that Gil didn't smell as bad as Francis. And, he seemed to be responding too, as he leaned over slowly until their lips were mere inches apart. _It can't that bad, right?_

It wasn't. It was but a short, innocent peck, like a child dipping his foot into the lake. His lips tasted like apples, obviously, and for some reason, chicken.

None of them knew why, but they both liked it. They pulled back immediately, their faces bright red. They stared at each other for what felt like.. a minute? A whole long hour? Neither of them could tell the difference, because their heads were all spinning daisies.

Okay, they came out of that alive. So, no harm done in trying it again?

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><p>AN: Ah, don't you wish their relationship will always be this perfect?


	5. ,Ocular

A/N: I think you guys have every right to complain to me about how "Lotophagi" is supposed to be a Rochu fic, and they are taking so long to meet each other. Well, I hope you guys will stay patient. I personally hate writing and reading stories that seem rushed. Good ones take time to brew! ;)

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><p>"When we go in, you two better keep your mouths shut, unless you want your heads cut off!" Ukraine said for the zenith time.<p>

The children nodded silently, and they continued walking down the crowded street, hoping not to run into anyone. The people here seemed to always be in such a rush!

After receiving a letter from their new boss that summoned them to his headquarters in Dadu, Ivan and his family had abandoned their cabin in the woods begun their journey across the continent.

They arrived, eventually, after many nights of roofless slumber and chewing on dry, sinewy game.

Ivan had blisters on his feet from all that walking, and probably blisters in his blisters. Not to mention, his one arm felt sore because Natalia had insisted that they held hands the entire way.

Though Ivan did everything his father had told him, they still lost the war. The Mongols were much stronger, in numbers and in wit. Thus, Kievan Rus had been effortlessly conquered, and Ivan was forced to give up his land. Even though the life of him and his people had not changed much under the new rule, Ivan still felt a dull pain in his heart. He'd let Winter down...

Well, at least he could try harder next time, right?

Ivan swore that if anyone else dared to invade his land again, he would impale their throats, crush their skulls, cut open their bellies and feed their guts to the wolves.

He giggled at the thought. Oh, that _would_ be fun.

But for now, Ivan was going to be a nice boy, keep his mouth shut, and hopefully, not get his sisters in trouble. Standing in front of the palace entrance, he couldn't help but notice how colourful the guards' costumes were. Ivan liked bright colours. Before he had a chance to tell them, the humongous gates opened up to reveal a tall, stern man with funny-looking eyes. Though, of course, Ivan would never say that out loud.

The man spoke their tongue in a barely comprehensible accent, which made Ivan laugh inwardly. He gave them a brief tour of his new boss's home, which was basically just a bunch of houses built really close to each other, and connected by outdoor hallways. They weren't prettier, but they sure looked different from what Ivan had seen back home. Heck, he would have never thought that houses could be built in such a way!

Natalia must have whispered something funny to Yekaterina, because they were both looking at the tour guide and trying to stifle their giggles. He probably didn't notice that they were making fun of him, as he seemed to be too full of himself.

Ivan dared to ask the man where the restroom was, but he said, curtly, that there was none.

The halls were empty of people except for a few maids who were carrying trays of food, reminding Ivan of his beastly hunger. Soon, they arrived at their room. The tour guide bowed and left, grumbling to himself in another language as he walked away. Cautiously, the siblings entered their new temporary home. It had table, a dresser, and a single large bed. After settling down for a bit, Ukraine told them that their new boss had demanded to see them immediately.

Russia sighed. He had been dreading this.

"Which means, you quit slouching like that!" His big sister barked, and Russia's spine shot up reflexively. Frowning and shaking her head, she combed his hair with her fingers, mumbling to herself about how it could never stand straight. Ukraine went over and roughly brushed Belarus' hair too, making her yelp in pain.

She was only making him more nervous.

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><p>The newly built palace was nothing more than the love child between cheaply imitated Chinese architecture, and clumsy, impatient engineering.<p>

Yao thought it disgraceful that the Mongols, having invaded their land and slaughtered their people, had also tainted thousands of years of architectural tradition with their slimy fingers. For the men who built this palace, probably nothing mattered more than getting the job done as expeditiously as possible, with no regard to the finesse that _could_ have thrived beneath their fingertips.

They might as well had copied this whole god-forsaken palace from a bunch of stencils.

Well, Yao supposed that it was their style, their way of life, and it had served them well during the conquest. Yao's country fell to their lightning-quick ambitions, and not to mention, a lapse of judgement on his own part. So, who was he to criticize their ways?

Instead, it was times like these when Yao would tell himself to look on the bright side.

He felt that he deserved a vacation, after having worked incessantly for all this time, building his empire from barren soil. So, he decided to let these foreigners rule his land for a few decades, while he got some much-needed beauty sleep. So, instead of fussing over his country's every last petty affair, he could catch up on his reading, and perhaps master a new script in calligraphy. Revenge would be exacted, eventually, when the tedium became too much to cope. His new boss didn't expect too much of him either, which was a relief. So far, all he had been told to do was sit beside his throne and welcome the newly arrived ambassadors.

The guests today were, to put it lightly, rather interesting. No, _entertaining_. They were three siblings, two girls and one boy, who chose to dress in peasant's clothes despite going to see the Khan. As they walked down the hall, some of the concubines coughed and whispered politely to each other. Even a few of the maids, being Hans, looked at them with disgust.

The oldest sister, who presumably knew better manners than the others, tugged at her siblings' sleeves, urging them to bow. Yao thought that this level of sophistication probably wasn't even mandatory in the culture from which they hailed.

Yao didn't really care for the conversation they shared with the Khan. It didn't concern him, for his sole job was to just sit there and look pretty. So, to amuse himself, his eyes perused the newcomers more closely.

Their skin was paler than marble, but had a healthy tinge to it. Their complexion was due to heritage; they weren't ill. The little girl had ocean-blue eyes, and head of long, canary-yellow hair which flowed to her knees. It was fine, soft, and seemed to be glowing, like an aureole framing her face. The oldest sibling wasn't much to look at, her hair was the colour of dirt and straw. But what piqued Yao's interest was the size of her breasts. He knew it was rude to stare, but how could he not when they were being shoved right in front of his face?

The boy was the last to rise. He had a pair blushing, chubby cheeks, while the rest of his face was hidden beneath the scarf he wore. Poor thing, he must be so scared, standing in a room filled with judgemental eyes. His own purple ones looked around nervously, darting from the unskillfully painted ceiling, to the off-coloured carpets. It seemed as if he was searching for something, someone who could help get him out of this situation, and that was when Yao noticed that his eyes were... violet.

Yao blinked a couple of times, clearing his vision, but it was unmistakable.

He was so sure that he had seen them, seen _him_ before. It felt as if they had known each other, once upon a time, but Yao's old lady memory just couldn't recall when.

No, he told himself, there was no way he could have forgotten a pair of eyes like those.

Instead, Yao agreed with the little voice in his head, and chose to believe that the boy must have been an acquaintance from another life. Yes, he must have known him from before they were even born. He liked the sound of that explanation, thus deemed it logical.

Descending from his thoughts, Yao had finally realized for just how long he had been staring into the violet. The boy had also been gazing into his own eyes in return, mouth agape, with a couple strands of saliva dangling from his chin. Yao looked away quickly and shielded his face with his fan, silently scolding himself for letting his mind slip at such an inappropriate time.

* * *

><p>Yao often wondered why he kept a habit of waking up so early in the morning. Usually, there was nothing for him to do at this hour, especially since Kiku had left to live at home for a while. Yao did recall that he must attend a meeting today to discuss something that was probably important, but that was not until the afternoon. So, in the mean time, he decided to take a walk around the palace, in hope of finding something in his event log.<p>

"Brother, I'm sorry!" Yao heard a girl yelling from down the hall, "Please forgive me, it won't happen again!"

Yao walked closer to investigate, hoping that whatever this was could occupy him for at least an hour or two.

"Stop running Bela," a boy's voice cooed, "You have done something wrong, so come here so I can punish you, _da_?"

The truth was that Natalia hadn't done anything wrong, other than having stolen a good portion of food from Ivan's plate when he had left for the washroom. Though Ivan, for the most part, was a kind, peaceful boy who loved his little sister enough to be a pushover, she had gone too far this time. No one touched his food, and if someone dared to, it was only fair that they get their hair cut off with a pair of scissors, right?

Yao saw the two pale children from yesterday running down the hall, knocking over flowerpots and even tackling into one of the newly hired maids, making her suddenly break into tears for having spilled the Khan's ginseng soup.

Snip.

A fistful of the girl's golden hair fell into a feathery puddle beneath her feet. The boy began giggling victoriously, despite that his sister had been reduced into a sobbing, wheezing, hairless mess.

Yao shook his head. Sometimes, children could be just as cruel as adults.

Quickly walking up to the girl, he helped her stand up, as she immediately hugged his legs and sobbed into the fabric of his robe. Not particularly fond of having mucous and tears slathered all over his outfit, he looked down at her uncomfortably. Her long hair had been reduced into a mere shoulder length, but still possessed that bright, sun-blessed colour that had amazed Yao the day before. Smiling, he bent down, and lightly dabbed her face dry with his sleeve.

"Come with me, little girl?" Yao said, taking her hand and giving her a wink, "I have a gift for you."

Natalia gave a few hiccups, and rubbed her nose before nodding slowly. As he began to lead her away, Yao turned back to the girl's brother. His heart gave a sudden jolt upon meeting those eyes again, but turned away quickly without noticing that the lovestruck boy was waving eagerly at him.

* * *

><p>"There," Yao said, smiling sweetly at Natalia, who was sitting in front of his vanity desk, "You should wear your hair like this from now on."<p>

Ivan, who was standing behind the door, pouted and stomped his feet.

Even though he knew it was bad to be jealous of his own sister, he just couldn't help it! How he wished that he was the one sitting in front of the mirror, getting his hair tied with a pretty ribbon by an even prettier lady.

Oh yes, she was so very pretty. She had long hair which seemed to flow eternally, like a black river leading into the underworld. Her face was as perfect and pure as the snow cones that his sister used to make him, and probably tasted like them too. Ivan bit into his fist.

He was too young to be a poet and too naughty to be a saint, but Ivan knew an angel when he saw one.

Ivan sighed. He'd never had much luck in winning the hearts of grown-ups. He was a "devil child", or so he had been told. The kind of boy that no good parent would want their son to play with. As the years went by, Ivan had come to accept the fact that no matter how hard he tried, he could never make people want to associate with him. And, he was fine with being alone.

But, for the first time in a while, he had begun to hate himself once more.

He hated that he wasn't cute enough to make the lady like him. Heck, seeing him chase someone down the hall with a pair of scissors probably scared her out of _ever_ liking him.

As if Natalia had read Ivan's thoughts, she turned to him and stuck out her tongue. Ivan growled, and accidentally smacked the door frame a bit too hard.

After the grooming session was finished, Yao helped Natalia down the stool, and lead her back to Ivan.

Yao bent down in front of him. "Now, sweetheart, will _you_ do me a favour?"

Suddenly, Ivan felt as if his heart was going to jump right out of his ribcage. He could feel sweat creeping down his neck, soaking his scarf. He thought he was going to faint soon, and he kind of wanted to, just so she could catch him in her arms.

Ivan couldn't believe it. He must have died and met Jesus.

"Anything," Ivan finally managed to croak, rather unattractively.

"I want you to be nicer to your sister from now on, and no more cutting her hair, okay?"

The boy's face was beet red. Yao wondered if he was sick.

"... Okay?" Yao asked again, a little worried.

After what felt like centuries of staring into Yao's eyes, Ivan finally blurted out, "So you're not mad at me?"

Yao chuckled, relieved that the boy didn't have a fever after all. "Of course not, and you two are welcome to visit me anytime!" He said, pinching the boy's cheek. He had always loved children, even strange ones like them. It was a shame that he couldn't have any of his own.

Kissing the two of them on the forehead, he bid them farewell and shut the door, leaving a satisfied Natalia and a grief-stricken Ivan by themselves. Congratulating himself on for a job well-done, he resorted to painting to waste the rest of his time.

That night, Ivan had a dream in which the pretty lady willingly got to be with him forever and ever. They did some really sexy stuff together, like taking a long walk on the beach and sharing the same plate of dumplings. She even agreed to bear his children, but sadly, he woke up before anything happened.

Next morning, the spot on Ivan's forehead where Yao had kissed still felt red-hot.

* * *

><p>Yao opened another scroll from the many that laid upon his study desk, flipped through it, and was delighted to had finally found what he'd been looking for. It was a passage from the "Analects of Confucius" that he was going to read to Kiku during the first lesson after his return.<p>

He did this, because the last thing he wanted was for his pupil to someday steer down the wrong path and stab him in the back. Which was why, he had always believed that moral discipline served best as a side dish to studying martial arts.

It was but a petty mechanism to control the young and mindless, after all.

Yao poured himself a cupful of light green tea. The tendrils of smoke rose from the steaming cup and into his nostrils. It did well to purify his lungs of bad air, and dispelled any notions of wanting to fall asleep early. He still had a bit more to read.

As his eyes scanned down the yellowing parchment, registering the words of the late philosopher in his mind, Yao gave a cynical chuckle.

To say that he himself upheld these moral codes of honour, selflessness, and fidelity would be telling a dirty, dirty lie. But, having the duty of being the teacher, it was mandatory for him to pass this knowledge onto Kiku, while maintaining stealth in his personal life. Yes, that was what must be.

Knock knock.

Yao shot his head and glared at the door. What kind of an insolent fool would dare knock on his bedroom door at such an ungodly hour? He was very tired, and was hoping to go to bed as soon as he finished reading. Mongolia knew better than visit him do late at night without an invitation, because the last time he did that, Yao had banned him from making love for a whole month. Apparently, physical torture wasn't enough, and he was at it again.

He marched to his door and flung it open. He shot up his hand with an intent to strike his lover in the face, but found that his visitor wasn't Mongolia. Instead, it was the same kid from yesterday and the day before, the one with those haunting amethyst orbs, who quickly shielded himself from the impact that never came.

Putting his arm down gently, Yao dared to take a long, deep breath. There was no need to lose his composure in front of a little boy. In response, Ivan had also put his arms down, and was back to smiling so widely that his whole face seemed to shrink in comparison.

Oh, he was such a dear, he even brought flowers for him! Figuring that he at least deserved at least some hospitality for his trouble, Yao lead him into his room, sat him down in front of his table and poured some tea. He eagerly snatched the cup and drank some, but, like all of the other foreigners Yao had ever entertained, he winced at the bitterness.

Yao, being a man of very few words, finally decided to break his code and opened his mouth to say something. Sadly, he was interrupted by an equally untalented conversationalist.

"You are really pretty," Ivan said dreamily, as if he was talking to fairies, "My name's Ivan, what's yours?"

"It is nice to meet you, Ivan, my name is Yao," he patronized, patting Ivan on the head.

"Yao," Ivan repeated, mouthing the name in his mouth multiple times, struggling with the odd pronunciation.

Yao's eyes scanned up and down his body, and couldn't help but think that if Ivan were a few years older, they probably wouldn't be sitting at the table and drinking tea right now. And, for the first time in a while, Yao inwardly smacked himself for having such indecent thoughts.

"So, how may I help you?" He asked instead.

"Um..." Ivan rolled his eyes up and down, from left to right, and back to Yao. "I just want to talk!" he finally said, shrugging.

_This late at night?_

"Very well, what do you have in mind?" He asked, shifting his posture to feign attentiveness.

"Well... hehe, Ivan was just wondering," he looked away, like a shy kitten, "are all the girls in Yao's country as pretty as she is?"

_Now Ivan, that wasn't so hard, was it? So much for rehearsing this line in front of the mirror a whole hour._

Silence.

"I am a man."

Extended silence, plus a jaw which almost literally fell to the ground.

"_Really?_" Ivan asked despairingly. _No! This couldn't be happening to him!_

"Yes." Yao replied curtly.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he hopped down his stool and waddled over to where Yao was sitting. He extended his hand and gave Yao's chest a few unregretful pats. Yao frowned, a little insulted.

"Oh no," he wailed, "you _are_ a man!" _Now who is going to bear his kids?_

Yao gave him an I-told-you-so look. "Do you believe me now, child?"

Ivan nodded, sadly, and for a while, refused to even look at him.

Yao blinked a few times, and decided that it was a good time to change the subject. He ventured to ask, "Well, Ivan," the name feeling oddly foreign on his tongue, "will you tell me about your life in Kievan Rus?"

Ivan also blinked a few times. "Okay!" He said brightly, deciding that it wasn't a good idea to look sad in front of his Yao for too long. Man or not, Ivan was still determined to get him pregnant someday.

He produced a box of sweets from nowhere, and set it on the table for his guest. Ivan clapped his hands delightfully, and took one without asking. He threw it in his mouth, and began his speech as he chewed.

"Um, I was born in the snow, somewhere really far away from here," he said slowly. His eyes stared dazedly into thin air, as if the memories he was trying to retrieve had been long lost. "Every year, when it got too cold, my father would come visit me and my sisters in our little cabin he had built for us, so we wouldn't be alone. They said that he was a really mean person, but I remembered him to be pretty nice. He left just before the Tartars invaded, and every year after that, the snowflakes always came back, but he never did..."

Yao nodded understandingly, and waited in silence until he was ready to continue.

"I love my sisters a lot!" He blurted out after a second or two, switching to his usual cheerful self as quickly as lighting a candle.

Yao frowned in slight worry. It was fire and ice with this boy, wasn't it?

He smiled giddily, and began kicking his legs up and down in a little dance as he spoke, "Yekaterina is my older sister. She has really huge boobs, and always yells at me. But, she is really good at cooking, and she even made me a scarf, see? " He waved the scarf around his eagerly in front of Yao's expressionless face, "Isn't it pretty?"

Not even giving Yao the chance to answer, nor giving himself the chance to breathe, he continued, "And you met Bela, my younger sister. She's weird and wants to hold my hand all the time, but I like her anyways."

Yao nodded, finding that his head was beginning to droop.

"And we all lived happily in our house until those stupid Tartars came, raped our women and killed our people!" He added in an unusually gleeful note, as if it had been an usual occurrence.

"And that happened when I was..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, "two hundred years old? Maybe three, maybe more. _Okay, three hundred and fifty. Well, maybe three hundred and seventy-five... Definitely more than three and less than two... Okay, it is either two hundred, or eight..._"

Apparently, no one ever taught him arithmetic.

Though they had just met, Yao wondered how Ivan's sisters had put up with him for all these years. He was an undeniably cute child, with chubby cheeks, sparkling laughter, and a smile that could melt anyone's heart. But, if only he could learn when to keep his mouth shut!

The boy hadn't stopped talking for over half an hour now. He spent over ten minutes on a verbal essay about why red was his favourite colour., while Yao had never thought that one could invest so much mental power into deciding something so trivial. Resting a cool palm upon his forehead, he realized how fortunate he was to have had to raise Kiku in _his_ stead.

He thought of what he had to do tomorrow. Well, his boss did ask to accompany him to some annual horse-riding competition out in the country, which began early in the morning, and would last for most of the day. Which meant, unless Yao wanted his boss and all of his little friends to see his dark circles and crow's feet, he had better get to bed, now. So, Yao racked his mind of the most gentle, but efficient way to curtail Ivan's endless string of word vomit, while keeping those beautiful violet eyes tear-free. But, he couldn't find anything, and thankfully, Ivan beat him to it.

"Yao?"

"Yes sweetie?"

Ivan skipped over to him and grabbed his hands. Yao was surprised at how cold his fingertips felt. "Yao," he said again, batting his eyelashes in girlish charm, "I'm tired, can I sleep here tonight?"

And how could he say no to his puppy-dog face? He sighed and nodded. Picking Ivan up, he walked over and set him upon his own bed. It seemed that he and Yao's bed had a natural affinity for each other, since Ivan had immediately seized the bed covers and rolled himself into a cocoon.

"Take off your boots, Ivan," Yao scolded.

Ivan face grew irresistible again, but this time Yao equipped himself with a displeased pout and arms around his chest, tapping his feet impatiently.

Ivan humphed in defeat and kicked them to the floor. See? He could be a good kid too!

"Well," Yao said, carrying the head of the cocoon onto his pillow, and planting another kiss on his forehead, "Good night."

He turned and walked towards the door.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"To the guest room, silly," Yao replied, "I am obviously not going to sleep here with you."

"Why not?" Ivan whined. His plan had been foiled.

Yao raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of the question, and wondered what he could possibly give as a cushioning answer. After searching through his head, and to no avail, he said once more,"Goodnight, Ivan," and walked outside, closing the door behind him.

A little voice in his head suggested that somehow, this had all been a really childish attempt at seduction. Yao quickly shook his head, and cursed his own dirty mind.

Though, on the off chance that it had been so, Yao made a mental note to someday teach Ivan how to do it properly.

* * *

><p>AN: Ivan is so cute... Though, I think if I met him in real life, I'd want to throttle the kid. xD

Notes:

- Dadu became the capital of the Yuan Dynasty 1272, and was the centre of the Mongolian Empire. It was located around modern-day Beijing.

- This applies to the next chapter as well- I am not trying to be racist, or looking down upon other cultures. It is Yao who is a little snooty. Just trying to be historically accurate here. ;) Thank you for understanding.

And, as usual- REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!

Teehee... :3


	6. ,Facepalm

A/N: Hey, here is my new update!

* * *

><p>Ivan, who had been sitting comfortably on Yao's lap, contorted his face into the most constipated frown he could possibly muster. Being very well-practiced in this art, he knew that this was the exact kind of frown that would have Yao immediately carry him away to see the doctor, because it made Ivan seem like he had caught some evil strain of flu.<p>

But, as usual, Ivan's diabolical schemes of trying to get Yao's attention had proven futile. His prey hadn't even looked at him for the past ten minutes, let alone heed to his cries for attention. Ivan regretted having invited himself to this party. He should have listened when Yao had warned him that this was going to be boring as hell!

_All right, I'm going to give this one last shot, _he thought to himself.

"_Yao-_" Ivan whined like a kitten, "Feed me!"

Upon hearing that dreaded voice again, Yao felt his right eye begin to twitch.

"Feed yourself!" he hissed between his teeth, looking around to make sure that no one else was paying attention, "I had taught you to use chopsticks yesterday!"

"But I forgot!" Ivan lied, and just to prove his point, he reached out in an attempt to grab a fistful of mutton.

Yao slapped his wrist away. Though everyone else at the table ate with their hands like animals, there was no way he was going to let Ivan stray down such a path. He was more than determined to convert his whole country back to civilization, one barbarian at a time.

So, rolling his eyes, Yao picked up a dumpling from the plate and shoved it into Ivan's giggling mouth.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>For the past few days, the boy seemed to had gone through every length to assert himself into all aspects of Yao's life. To make things worse, he would appear at the most inopportune of times.<p>

For example:**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>1.<p>

To live with royalty is to live in a lion's den, and to do so, Yao believed that there was only a single technique one needed to master- deception.

Hence, despite having spent over five hours in this furnace of foul air, racketing chatter and lewd eyes, Yao's face had maintained the same serene expression, as if he was wearing a porcelain mask.

But on the inside, he was screaming.

"_Dear honourable general who had taken the liberty to sit beside me for all this time, do you not think that I can notice your filthy leg brushing against mine, almost on purpose? Your breath smells like rotting corpses, and it doesn't seem like you have shaved once in your life. It's no wonder that all of your wives are war brides! And, I warn you (though you cannot hear me), if you don't get your slimy hands off me right now, I may have to slip something into your drink..._**"**

Those accursed men!

Not to mention, being able to control one's temper is also vitally important during situations like these, when the lives of everyone in the Han race rested under his tongue. Though Yao was also good at this, he did occasionally have slip-ups.

"You must now allow yet another tax rise!" Yao demanded, pounding his fist, as everyone at the table turned their heads to him, "Don't you understand? If the peasants give all of their silver to the empire, they wouldn't be able to buy any food for themselves, and they are going to face even worse starvation than last year!"

The boss, who Yao had failed to please from day one, would do anything to pick on his underling. Thus, having found yet another crack in the vase, he smirked and opened his mouth to say something. But, before he had the chance, he was interrupted by his equally obnoxious son who also held his father's view of how... "women" and politics didn't mix.

"Hey sweetie!" The son hollered from across the room, "How about you and me have some fun later, eh?" He blew him a kiss.

Laughter and whistling ensued.

Yao was about to fly over the table and kick him in the face, but sadly, he was interrupted by something, or some_one _even more embarrassing.

"Yao!" Ivan yelled, as he ran down the hall, miraculously avoiding the spears, arrows, and other sharp objects that the guards had aimed at him.

Ivan sprinted up the steps and collapsed right into the arms of his beloved. "I missed you so much!" he whined, drowning his head into the silky sea of Yao's robe. Yao petted his hair and softly whispered for him to stop crying or he wouldn't play with him later. Everyone else roared with laughter, slapping their knees and chortling wine all over the table.

"Hey China, is that your son? Who fucked you this time?" said an ignoramus that Yao swore wasn't going to see tomorrow's sunrise.

Ignoring them, Yao looked down at Ivan and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Um..." Ivan racked his head for the most excusable excuse he could come up with for having interrupted this meeting. Gazing up at the ceiling, he tapped his chin thoughtfully and mumbled, "Well, I saw, uh... a big fat cow walking around the palace yesterday! She looked really scary, Yao, and, um... she was going to eat everybody! So I wanted to see if you were hurt. Da!" He nodded earnestly, impressed with his mad skills. A wise man had once told him that lying was the best way to get into a woman's bed. Whatever that meant.

Except, everyone in the room, including Yao, fell dead silent to his words.

The "fat cow" Ivan was speaking of was actually one of the Khan's most prized concubines, and not to mention, his first cousin. Which meant, though people wanted to, no one in the palace dared to question his taste for women, lest he wanted his eyes gouged out and his body dismembered, like the last brave/foolish soul.

A few of the men looked at the pair and whispered amongst themselves, "They're dead."

Of course, due to Ivan's status, the Khan would not dare to touch him. Instead, he just sat there, rigid and silent, as his face boiled with the anger that Yao knew all too well.

As he and Ivan walked out of the room, a part of Yao was proud that Ivan had finally taken a stab at the bastard's craw. But, Yao knew that he was not going to hear the end of it from his boss, since said bastard had never been the one to let go of a grudge so easily.

Not to mention, it was almost certain now that those poor peasants in the southern provinces weren't going to be exempt from a tax raise.

Gritting his teeth at the thought, Yao yanked Ivan's ear a little too hard.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

Yao would always get a warm feeling spreading inside his heart whenever Kiku made improvements in anything. But, he'd never tell him that.

Instead, he took his bamboo staff and smacked his pupil on his already bruised wrist. "Play it again," he demanded, "and this time, don't flick your finger so stiffly on the seventh string."

Kiku looked down dejectedly to his zither and played it again. He hoped that this time, he could at least get to the second chapter of the piece without having to withstand another beating.

Yao paced around the study room with his hands held firmly behind his back, and shaking his head every once in a while, pretending to be dissatisfied.

Deciding to take a peek outside, he put his staff down, walked to the window and flicked back the curtains. Today was a good day. No clouds, nor rain. Just sun, but not enough to singe everything to a crisp. The summer air had baked the scent of spruce and pine out of their leaves, and was gently being fanned onto Yao's face by the gentle breeze. A dainty sparrow roosted upon a twig, only to delicately hop off a few seconds later, springing back into flight. How Yao wished that Kiku had such lithe fingertips.

All was well, until he saw another little bird, well no, _Ivan_, skipping merrily down the path of the veranda, as his feet pitter-pattered against the wooden beach. Yao's heart sank and did an excited twirl at the same time, assuming that was physically possible.

Yao supposed he should walk over to the door to welcome him. But apparently, he didn't need to. Before he had the chance to turn around, something heavy, well, heavier than it was a week ago due to the palace's good food, collided with his back. Yao swore he had heard his spine shatter from the impact.

Kiku stopped playing and watched them silently, thinking that this should be interesting to see.

"Oh Yao, where were you? I haven't seen you in so long!" Ivan dry-sobbed dramatically, hugging his waist like it was the only good thing left in this cold, cold world.

"But you saw me yesterday!" Yao managed to wheeze out, despite that little Ivan was suffocating him with his uncanny strength.

"That's still a long time!"

"Well, I was busy!" Yao snapped, before picking him up and walking over to Kiku. Upon seeing a raised eyebrow disrupting the blank plane of Kiku's face, Yao felt like digging a hole in the ground and dying in it.

"Well, Ivan, this is my student Kiku." Yao began.

For the past few weeks, Yao had dreaded the moment when he would have to do this introduction. Now, he just hoped that Kiku would behave, and wouldn't ask any difficult questions about this later.

Standing up, he said "nice to meet you," and bowed.

Also, it would be nice if some of the manners that he had taught Ivan had managed to penetrate his thick skull...

Ivan glared daggers at the other boy and pouted impishly. "Is that your boyfriend?" He demanded, pointing rudely.

A few seconds later, Kiku excused himself due to a stomachache.

And, three things had happened since-

Yao had declared that someday, he was going to sew Ivan's mouth shut.

Ivan had vowed to never let anyone take his precious Yao away from him again.

And lucky for Ivan, Kiku had issued cancellations for his lessons with Yao all week, on the rather suspicious grounds that he had fallen ill. **  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Yao pinched another slice of lamb from his plate and gingerly placed it in Ivan's mouth, smiling as he watched him chew gratefully with his mouth open. Ivan looked like such a little king, sitting on his lap as if it was a throne.<p>

He had tried on many occasions to get rid of him, but how could he, when was just so cute?

Yao found himself snuggling with Ivan, his arms wrapping around the chubby boy like a cradle, and his face wearing a smile sugary enough to have given anyone a toothache.

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you liked it. xD Please review!

Also- I have made a rough calculation. I think this fic is going to be over 100 chapters long. So, buckle up! xD


	7. AN: An explanation

Hello there, this is not a legit update. Sorry, been a little busy. Instead, this is a bit of an interlude in which I will address a pressing issue that you guys maybe are wondering about, but just haven't gotten to speak up. Also, I will give you a sneak preview of what you will expect from me in the future, with regards to "Lotophagi."

**Feb 28th 2012**- Edits made regarding the clarity of my arguments. The dichotomy between Yao's person and his country is made more emphatic. I will never tone my humour down. If you don't like hearing my rants, and you are too uptight to laugh a little, then don't mind me saying, for fuck's sake, leave. It is only made to your reading a dry analysis a little more entertaining. Take-home points are printed in **bold, **the rest is just bullcrap that I wanted to post anyways.

**Warnings: Less-than-immaculate grammar, unprofessional language, and my own crude, creepy, and sometimes cruel sense of humour. Please read with caution, and an open mind. I'm just full of shit... Not that it is an excuse. **

First off- I bet this is something that are concerning a great number of you, or however many people who actually care to read my fanfic. And that is... (drum rolls please) Yao's character. Aha!

Now, like I had mentioned in the really long author's note in ch. 1, I fully admit that I have had a little too much fun with Yao's personality. Heck, I have fully done a 180' from his canon self. And, I have a suspicion that some of you may be a little upset at me for this...

So, what I am about to do is strip him down from head-to-toe (giggity), give you guys my full analysis of Yao, and hopefully, this would be enough to justify why I portray him the way I do.

When I made this story up in my head, I was feeling the need to assign a "hero" and a "heroine." Sure, this concept is terribly, terribly cliched in literature, but I had to be naughty just this once. ;) Though my two ultimate favourite pairings in APH are Fruk and Rochu, and I chose to feature Rochu for this reason. I think people would react A LOT worse to England being this effeminate.

(Plus, Rochu gives the story a more fresh, open perspective on the history of the world. I believe that Fruk are just too caught up with fighting with each other, and drowning and choking in their sexual tension, to let anyone else into their realm. If "Lotophagi" were a Fruk fanfic, then it would more likely be _all about them. _On the other hand, while Ro and Chu are in love, they still have the potential to foster interesting relationships with other countries. Opium war, cold war, modern times, etc. They are not as consumed with each other than Fr and Uk are, in my humble opinion.)

Which means, as you are reading, I think it would be a lot easier on your eyes to just view China as female. He is the heroine of my story, while Russia is the hero. Though, for China, being transgender does have its advantages, as you will see in later chapters.

Also, while Russia is the _hero_, he is by no means the _protagonist_. This is when hair-splitting becomes significant.

Now, on to China's personality, or, should I say, Yao's personality.

(**When I am writing, I try to place more emphasis on the humanism of these characters. I am depicting more of Yao than China, if that makes much sense. I may TAKE INSPIRATION FROM Chinese history in creating his personality, but I am NOT bound to it. I am not going to make him act a certain way SOLELY BECAUSE of history.** Makes sense?)

**I am not trying to diss the country, China, by making Wang Yao a total slutbag. And yes, if you put it bluntly, he is, so far, pretty much, a total slutbag, lol. I am making a claim about his personal constituency, and I am not, by any means, directly stating anything about China's history just from this single aspect of his personality. **

**Wang Yao, in my story, also has human qualities, and I hope that your own response to his character does not affect your own opinion about the country.**

And, this is how I see it-

For centuries, Yao has struggled with insecurities about his external beauty, and his self-identity.

This is demonstrated in ch. 1 with-

1. As he was getting dressed, he first states that he has admired the colour red for its "rich, daunting hue", and as he slips the robe over his shoulders, he feels that his own body is being eaten up by the piece of clothing. To Yao, the clothes that he wears are so much more than the person he actually is. (Besides, lol, he full-on states that he feels inadequate about himself.)

2. The night before, he had placed seven pieces of hair jewelry in a row in front of his vanity desk, and he thinks that every knot in his hair _must _be loosened. This shows the first hint of OCD'ness in his personality, which is often associated with someone who is obsessed with the way they look. Furthermore, the number seven is an unlucky number in Chinese culture, because it is one less than eight, a super duper awesome lucky number. Seven is a number of imperfection, which mirrors how he feels about himself.**  
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3. Okay, so we got that he is a _little _mentally, um, ill? Troubled? Very well, then now lets move onto the relationship between him and his boy toy, Mongolia. He is passively controlling in their relationship. Mongolia may threaten to strangle him, and be angry all he wants, but who is really the dominant figure in this?

Yao is only using him, because he has this constant need to feel wanted, to feel important. He even notes that sex is the only thing he is good at anymore. And, it is true. He is stuck in this cloud of imperial decadence, of gold, parties, and debauchery. He occasionally gives two cents about his people, and teaches Kiku to be a good kid. But, really, Yao is rotting from the inside out. Sure, he _used _to be all "RAWR Yeah! War! Nationalism! Fight to the death!" But, that was thousands of years ago. Consider Yao to be going through a bit of a mid-life crisis right now. He has gotten rid of all of that adolescent vigour during the Spring and Autumn, and Warring states phase. From Han to Tang, he had worked hard to build his empire and to boot, a vibrant culture. Now, he has become a little soggy.

So, in conclusion, Yao is this way because he feels inadequate about himself, and wants to be loved, while not falling in love. He is going through a mid-life crisis, and he seems to believe that the best treatment for it is to make bad choices akin to those of a crackhoe. Once again, keep in mind that not only does he represent his country, he also does have human qualities. He, like humans, possesses his own insecurities, longing to belong, desire for flesh, etc.** _Which means, he could have reacted to his experiences of being a nation, his life so far, in a different way. But, there is a sense of nature versus nurture here. He is, as Nietzsche said, "human, all too human". In my story's AU, immortals which represent the countries are not Gods, they are humanoid creatures. **_They are not perfect._** Which means, there are certain aspects of his nature that are inborne, and have nothing to do with him being China. Upon making up his character, I have taken the liberty to inject him with a personality like this, instead of the canon one, because I believe that this is significant for the later developments of the story. I hope the readers' interest stays until then, even if you are disappointed now. _**

Speaking of love... Yao _is _going to get with Ivan... or most of you wouldn't be reading this!

His lifestyle also serves as a stark contrast to how much restraint he shows with Ivan. It serves as a foil to Rochu's relationship throughout the story. We can see that though Yao has considered being sexually involved with Ivan at the end of chapter five, Yao refuses, and even goes as far to condemn his these thoughts. He truly cares about Ivan, though the kid is pretty damn annoying. But, he just doesn't want to admit it yet, because he is a little snooty. Who can blame him? He sits on a golden pedestal as one of the most powerful countries in his time. **His relationship with Ivan demonstrates that he is capable of having different sides to his personality. Yao is more in-depth than at first glance, which you will see maybe fifty to sixty chapters down the road. **

So, what does the future hold for our favourite heroine? Well, history speaks for itself. He will fall, and his hedonistic lifestyle will contribute greatly to his apostasy. I don't want to say too much, but we all know that Japan betrays him, and many other western countries pretty much... gang rape poor Yao. I suppose then, Yao would finally get what he has always wanted, to be getting that attention, and be passed around on everyone's lap? Well not really, cause he also has his personal pride. It would be too much for him, and his own insecurities would serve to exacerbate the pain he feels during the Century of Shame. Not to mention, how would he play into Fr and Uk's relationship? Only time will tell. **Once again, I stress the fact that here, Yao is acting as a person, not a country. Being China is not the only thing that makes him Yao. This gap is an important theme, and will play a significant role in the conclusion of the story. **

Which is why, naughty!Yao is necessary in the development of my story. Everything is weaved into a web, and I can't leave anything out! D:

Also, there will be a part of my story where I describe the modern times, and in the future.

Oh, I am so looking forward to writing futuristic!Hetalia. I have already gotten a few chapters down. Lotophagi is soooo getting finished. Well, unless I get hit by a car, or die of alcohol poisoning. :3

By then, Yao would have changed so much, though he still keeps a few of his old-world traits. A hundred chapters later, you guys wouldn't even remember how he used to be. **The importance is how Yao has changed throughout the years, and how he and Ivan stay so deeply in love with each other, despite all the odds that have been set against them.**

So, now it is time for me to ask the readers to kindly consider giving Yao a chance. I believe writing Mary Sues is a criminal flaw. Which is why, he ain't no Mary Sue, and that is what makes him interesting. I mean, aren't you guys tired of seeing Yao act as a damsel in distress in the fandom, while Ivan would his prince charming? (Who is just a little creepy, stalkerish, insane, etc. Oh wait! I am not allowed to say that Ivan is insane, cause it is not politically correct. No, he is not insane. He is... _special_... Like Kelloggs cereal. xD)

**My Yao has his problems, and they will be resolved as the story moves on. To keep him the way he is right now is an insult to China, but making him rise from the ashes and into a better person is tasteful characterization**.

Of course, he is nothing like canon!Yao. But, I think if a seriously patriotic Chinese person were to watch the show, they would get so pissed. Though I am not claiming that I am being 100% historically accurate, I don't think making Yao a panda-loving, effeminate, tsundere senile grandmother is being very considerate to China's glorious history, and her current prowess on the international playing field.

_It would be dishonour on your whole family. Make a note of this! Dishonour on you, dishonour on your cow, etc... (Mulan reference)_

But, no worries. We all know that Hetalia is a comedy at which you are supposed to laugh to the point where you choke on your Kimchi, and never want yourself, nor anyone else in the world to watch the show again. Yes, if you value your life, you should never watch Hetalia, because it will make you laugh so hard that it becomes a health hazard. Seriously, I think scientists should research the lifespans of Hetalia fangirls to normal people. May help them finally find a cure for cancer. Wait, what am I saying?

Not to mention, think about how well using Yao's cannon personality would fit into "Lotophagi". Can you already see in your head, the complete horror show?

Oh, and if you seriously hate seeing Yao being all down and dirty. Um, I think you won't like the next chapter very much, which I will be updating... Soon... :S

So, thank you very much for taking the time my author's note/rant/analysis/whatever. I promise that the next time I update will be two or three new chapters. I would also love to hear your feedback regarding your thoughts on the story, and Yao so far. I do ever so love getting reviews, and I seriously don't mind if you flame me! xD Insults make me as happy as compliments do.

I hope you guys all have a great week!

And, as a side note. Why is this story called "Lotophagi"?


	8. ,Rust

Hello!

So here I present to you two chapters. This is the Rochu one, the next one isn't. I try to give you guys updates on Ivan and Yao every time, just to be fair. :)

Thank you for all the support so far. I have revised the rant from last chapter. I tweaked it just a little, to make my important arguments more discernible. If you have the time, please re-read. It still sounds like I had written it at 4 a.m. in the morning after a few beers, but at least I think the points that I originally wanted to get across have been clarified. Please take a few minutes to read, especially if you have begun to hate me. Please address all other flames and insults after the fact. Otherwise, they will be ignored. Thank you for your cooperation.

I love the reviews that you guys have sent me, and I will take all of them into account, and I hope I won't disappoint too much. :)

Below is my response for **Lego**'s review. I don't know how else to contact her. I just hope she reads this soon. xD

_ Thank you for having taken your time to review my story for the past couple of chapters. I really appreciate it. Nononono, don't feel guilty. I think the fault is kind of mine too, for having just thrown Yao's OOC at everyone's face without an explanation. _

_Oh, really? I never knew England was supposed to be an effeminate character... Guess I needed to have paid attention to the series a bit more. o.o_

_Don't worry about that! I hate writing lemons, and intimate scenes in general. Though I will make it my new years resolution to write a lemon before December, it would not be incorporated into this story. I had rated it T, and I will honour it. Thanks for your concern. Also, keep in mind. He is male, rich, and very powerful. He gets to do whatever he wants, in secret... ;)_

I give y'all a fair warning about my portrayal of Yao in this chapter, and in the next update as well. Please take with a pinch of salt. Then, I think I will give it a rest, as Yao grows out of that phase for a while.

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><p>Yao took the welfare of his country to be of utmost importance; he would live and die for her. But, beyond that, he had learned to never question himself nor his nature. He was born in this humanoid body, and there was no logical reason why its desires should be neglected, its thirst left unquenched. After all, Yao never understood the masochism of restraining one's actions for the sole sake of keeping moral order. It wasn't as if it had been cast in stone by some God, and whoever refused abide wouldn't be eternally damned. Adherence to social customs was only to save face, to ensure his own survival in this imperial labyrinth.<p>

Which meant, Yao's lovers were as disposable to him as a box of matches.

With that thought, he picked up the newly lit flame, and began to infect the row of candles which stood around the perimeter of his room. The daughters glared back at him like pairs of eyes, unblinkingly watching his every move.

He smirked. They could use an audience.

"Cut the nonsense, China. Come back to bed," Mongolia's voice rang from behind the canopy.

Yao's face fell. He was only vying for a little atmosphere. Was that such sacrilege?

He supposed that he might as well get this over with. The sooner he got his dose, the sooner he could move on to the other things he had planned to do today.

He whisked the curtains away and joined Mongolia, whose naked form was laying upon his bed, the sheets covering his lower half— where he rightfully belonged. China clutched his lover's chin, and collided their lips in a loud slap. He plunged his tongue into the other's mouth like a bullet, leeching out the bitter taste of saliva. His hands ran down the solid canvas of Mongolia's chest, feline nails digging into skin, not deep enough to draw blood, but sufficed to make him moan, or whimper.

Much to his dismay, Mongolia's performance today had been unusually stiff. China would flirt his lips and tease his thighs, trying to get him to loosen up. But, he would just lay there, still, like a stone bull.

Yao cursed inwardly. He hadn't the time nor patience to fix malfunctioning toys.

He dove down to capture his lips again, but this time, Mongolia's large, rough hand cupped China's cheek, stopping his advances. "Why such a rush, China?" He asked, caressing the skin with sandpaper fingertips, "Can't we just lay here and talk a little?"

His usual growling had tone softened, deepened, as if he was beckoning for China's heart to melt. However, it only served to sicken him.

China was not discouraged, and to prove it, he reached a hand downwards and gripped firmly. Mongolia scrunched his face and let out an arid gasp, as he worked his magic. China smirked. Through hooded eyes, he stared down at his pitiful, helpless form. He was almost beautiful.

Mongolia was frightened of him, for he knew that if China wanted his death, he would not hesitate, for the sake of his poisonously sweet touch. But for now, he knew he must stay true to his intentions of coming here in the first place. Which was why, he gave himself a few more minutes of pleasure before snatching away China's wrist for good.

Catching his breath, Mongolia dared to say, with as much conviction as he could muster, "Let's slow down a bit today. You're wearing yourself out, dear." He took China's hand and held it in his own, entwining their fingers together, as if they were in love.

Yao chuckled, he wasn't going to give up this easily. He _was _going to get it today, milk the last bit of juice out of him, whether he liked it or not.

Refusing to dismount him, he jerked his hand free, and bent down to give him a deep, wet kiss. "Don't lie to me, Mongolia," China hissed, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting it, "You want me."

He whimpered in pain. China scowled. Was he in bed with a woman?

Mongolia mouthed something through his haggard breaths, but seemed to be too much of a coward to enunciate it properly.

"What did you say?" China demanded, almost growling.

"I-I love you, China," he said, and took a gulp. "..._Yao_."

China froze upon hearing those words.

It was the first time he had called his name, for the hundred years they had been together.

He slid off from Mongolia's waist, and turned away from him. He closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths, not that helped much. Those three words had already been said, and China knew that their relationship was over.

It had been nice while it lasted. The sex was fine, he supposed.

Mongolia sat up and wrapped his arms around China's waist. "I love you," he repeated, a little more firmly this time, "Do you love me?"

Yao closed his eyes and allowed himself to melt into his embrace one last time. Warm, like candlelight. This one always gave the best hugs, and that would probably be what he'd miss most about him. Or, maybe how he smelled of hearth wood and spices, especially after a day of hunting.

Yao opened his mouth, and was about to utter his rejection. But, once again, he was interrupted by someone, probably Ivan, knocking on his bedroom door.

And, that was when Yao had decided that he was finally at his wit's end with the boy.

Shoving Mongolia off of him and draping a coat over his bare shoulders, Yao stalked to the door and swung it open.

"What do you want, Ivan?" Yao hollered, without thinking.

Somehow, Yao was scary enough at that moment to had made Ivan look as if he had come face-to-face with the monster living in his closet. Ivan shrieked, and drooped his head.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy." Yao commanded, tipping his chin up. "What do you want from me?"

Even Yao winced at how harsh he sounded, and it was too bad that said words could not be taken back.

"W-well, I-I just wanted to say come say hi..." Ivan mumbled, "'C-cause I'm leaving tomorrow... and..."

Ever since Ivan had met Yao, he couldn't wait to someday grow big and strong, so he could protect him. Though Ivan knew that real men didn't cry, he couldn't help it! He sniffed a couple of times, and inwardly cursed the tears that were beginning to cloud his vision.

Yao, his Yao, was mad at him...

Wiping a messy handful of mucous from his nose, he sniffed again.

Yao folded his arms and stood back, waiting for him to finish. As much as he wanted to stoop down to comfort him, he decided against it. He told himself that there were manners that Ivan needed to learn, the hard way. One did not simply invite himself into another's home, and demand entry into their bedroom! Had his father failed to teach him common sense?

"Yao," Ivan eventually stuttered, between hiccups, "May I _please _come in?"

Yao, still not impressed with Ivan's usage of the magic word, said flatly, "No, I'm busy."

"China, what's going on?" Mongolia's voice rang from inside the room. Ivan snatched a peek of him from behind Yao's legs. He wondered what a naked man was doing on Yao's bed.

"I'm taking care of it!" Yao snapped.

He looked back at Ivan, took a deep breath, and said, "Look, I can't play with you right now. Please leave, or," Yao paused, thinking of the lightest threat he could come up with, "I'll never talk to you again!"

Yao winced at his own words. That was a bit too much. He didn't mean to sound so harsh. It just slipped from his tongue...

Though Ivan was an annoying little thing, and often times, talking to him was like drinking cold tea in a blizzard, Yao had never knew that when the boy was angry, he looked like... that. Suddenly, it felt as if the temperature had plummeted, as a chill dashed through Yao's body, like someone had ran a slimy finger down his spine. He could swear that Ivan's bright violet eyes had swirled into a more darker, more sinister hue, like crystal balls telling a bad fortune.

How in the heavens could someone suddenly go from a crying, wheezing lump into looking like the son of Hell?

"...Ivan?"

Ivan opened his mouth to speak, as Yao braced himself for a hurricane.

Instead, the boy said, in a low, soft hush, "Yao doesn't have to talk to me if he doesn't want to. He doesn't have to play with me, or even look at me."

Each word was enunciated in a painfully slow manner. He didn't sound like he was going to tear roofs off buildings, nor that he was going to start sobbing like Yao had expected him to.

Yao just stood there, at a loss for words.

"And I think he looked better when his lips weren't painted." Ivan added.

With those last words, he turned and walked away, with a bit of a sad limp.

Yao's finger absently smeared a bit of his red lip stain.

He couldn't bring himself to call back; he didn't even know if he still had a voice left. He turned around to see that Mongolia had fully dressed and was ready to leave.

"Didn't you want to leave?" Yao shrieked, after a few minutes of them staring at each other in silence, "Then leave!"

He left.

Yao punched his mirror, shattering it. He collapsed on his bed with an ungraceful thud, and kicked his feet against the bunk of his bed. He screamed until his throat rawed, into the pillow which still smelt like his past lover. Was it even possible that anyone else could have a worse day?

Why was he so upset? He didn't know. He didn't have the mental capacity to assess that. Instead, he resorted to pleasing himself, since obviously, no one else was going to.

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><p>Staring into the mirror that he had broken the night before, Yao let out a long breath, and rested a grumpy face upon his propped elbow. It was noon, and Ivan was supposed to be leaving any time now.<p>

However, he couldn't bring himself to run to the front gates and say goodbye to him. Besides, Ivan probably didn't even want to see him. Yao had visited his room last night carrying a basket of his favourite sweets, hoping to console the poor kid. He knocked on his door repeatedly and stood in the cold for almost ten minutes, but received no answer. Either Ivan had fallen asleep before the skies had even darkened, or he was still mad at Yao.

He told himself that he had already gone through enough embarrassment for Ivan's sake, and there was no need for him to condescend once more, for the little pinch of pride he had left.

After all, it was Ivan's own fault that he overreacted, right?

The bouquet that Ivan had given him on the day they met were still contained in a glass vase on his desk. The once vivid red petals had sered, and the flowerheads had become sad. Yao found himself staring blankly into vase's murky green water which had once been crystal clear.

Yao was glad that he had met Ivan, someone to whom he could be true about his feelings. Around him, he didn't have to wear a mask of false elegance, and, for the first time since his mother died, he could let his guard down when speaking to another person.

And now, it was time for him to toss the flowers out, no matter how pretty they may had been, or how delightfully well the red petals had matched his curtains, bed sheets, furniture, and pretty much everything else in his room.

Nothing lasted forever, and trying to hold onto the ephemeral would just make things ugly.

Yao had left the door open intentionally to let the winds blow new air into his room. The dampness had been giving him knee pains. He set his elbows upon the table and laid his head down, minding not to cut himself with the shards of glass from his broken mirror, that had been splattered across the wooden surface. He didn't have much to do today, and even if he did, he didn't feel up to it.

Deciding to take a brief nap, he closed his eyes, and let the aroma of fresh, defrosting earth lull him into sleep. But, before his mind slipped away, what felt like a bony finger poked his side. Rather hard, too. Yao stayed still, hoping the intruder would go away, and not to mention, fall off a cliff and die for having so rudely disrupted his beauty sleep. But, apparently the intruder was not disheartened, as Yao felt something tug his ear a couple of times, followed by what sounded like Ivan's voice calling his name worriedly.

He shot up and turned to look at Ivan, almost not wanting to.

"Does Yao feel alright today?" Ivan asked, placing a palm against his forehead, "'Cause he looks like shit."

Ivan, who had just realized that he said a naughty word, gasped and slapped his hand over his mouth. He shook his head furiously, as if doing that could take back what he had said.

Yao, who was more than glad that Ivan was back to his normal self, smiled wearily. He had just accepted the fact that it was going to take divine providence to rectify Ivan's manners.

"So you are not mad at me anymore?" Ivan asked.

"No, Ivan, I'm not mad at you anymore..." Yao said, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Yay!" He jumped up and down repeatedly, making everything in the room rattle. Some of the broken glass slipped off the table and shattered against the floor. Ivan leaned over and gave Yao bone-crushing hug, to which Yao did not protest.

Finally, after a few minutes of peace, Ivan asked, or rather, _stated_, "So, Yao will marry me."

He froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"Willyoumarryme?" Ivan said all in one word. His lips shot up into a wide, somewhat nightmare-inducing grin.

"Um... _no_." Yao answered bluntly.

This time, it only took a millisecond for Yao to register that he had said the wrong thing again. But, it took even less time for Ivan's face to fall.

Yao cursed himself for still having been so thoughtless with his words. He had already witnessed the potential of Ivan's temper once before, and... he had a lot of expensive things in this room.

Quickly, Yao leaned over and cupped Ivan's reddening cheek. "I meant... Yes I will!" he said quickly.

Ivan relaxed his frown and blinked a few times in confusion. "...What?"

Yao rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ivan, I will marry you, as long as you won't throw a tantrum and break something..." He cooed, with the most sweet, doting voice he could possibly squeeze out of his lips.

Ivan beamed at him incredulously, his eyes sparkling like purple lakes. "Oh, Yao!" He stood up and threw his arms around his neck. "I promise that you will be the happiest wife in the whole world!" He declared proudly, and loudly into Yao's ear.

Yao patted his idiot head comfortingly. Just playing along...

Though, Yao thought it was nice that their parting moment was a nice one, since after today, they probably wouldn't get to see each other ever again.

"Yao?" Ivan finally said, breaking their embrace, "I have to go now."

"Okay, I understand."

Yao stared into those eyes once more, and remembered the moment when they had first enchanted him. They would have held an even more breathtaking glow, if only their beholder didn't turn out to be such a pain in the ass.

Well, Yao supposed that at least, Ivan had kept him company for the last week or so, and Yao couldn't have asked for anything more, from anyone.

"You take care of yourself, okay? And be nice to your sisters." He said, petting his shaggy hair.

"Okay." Ivan said obediently. "And I promise I'll come back for you someday, when I am big and strong enough to carry you!"

Yao could only scoff at Ivan's innocence. Those were their final moments, and he knew that, for deserts and mountains stood between their homes. They had their time, and it was over.

But, for now, it seemed like what kept them apart was only a few centimetres of air.

Yao narrowed his eyes. When had they become so close?

Before Yao had a chance to move an inch, or even open his mouth to say something, Ivan rolled on his tip-toes and... kissed him. It was light and short, but Yao felt it like a hammer smashing into his head.

_Did he just...?_

_That little bastard!_

And when Yao opened his eyes, Ivan was already skipping away victoriously, humming a tune.

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><p>There is one more chapter after this one. :) I hope you liked it. Reviews are always welcome.<p> 


	9. Biting Your Nail

Okies. This one is about, Fruk, and PruHun.

**Rochu is in the previous one.**

**March 5 2012- Holy mother of God my grammar is so terrible and my proofreading skills are so terrible and my tenses flip like turntables and I have a tendency for writing run-on sentences don't worry I think I have proofread all 8 chapters pretty well and they should be a lot better. **

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><p>"Okay, so is everyone here?" Prussia asked stupidly as he looked around the circle of friends, trying to take attendance.<p>

"Yeah, I'm here," everyone replied to his pointless question simultaneously. Sometimes, they couldn't help but wonder how the hell a moron like him got to be the boss of their group.

Obviously, the absentee in question wasn't going to run down here all the way from his house just to inform Prussia of his absence.

Hungary, or Prussia's other, smarter half, was sitting comfortably on his lap. She shot him an "are you serious?" look, and asked instead, "So, why couldn't Francis make it today?"

"I believe that he is at home entertaining guests," Austria answered calmly, "I was speaking with him yesterday, and he told me that people from England were crossing the channel to visit his country."

Whenever that bastard spoke, all Prussia wanted to do was to rip that head with all of its perfectly trimmed hair right off Austria's neck. He could. He _knew_ he could. But, Hungary wouldn't be too happy...

Everyone else "ooh'ed" at the new information and looked at each other curiously. It was not often that any of them got in contact with people from the northern islands.

No one knew what went on up there, other than that they had become quite powerful over the past few decades, ever since a new boss stepped onto the throne.

"Hm, it is kind of cool that Francis gets to meet them." Spain said, nodding slowly, "Maybe then England will come play with us too..."

Prussia shot him a death glare, but said forced himself to stay quiet. He was still quite annoyed with the fact that there were two new faces in his clubhouse. He had formed these alliances in the first place in order to defeat Austria, and now thanks to stupid Hungary, he got to see his fat, well-groomed face every day!

Seeing that Prussia had gotten a little upset, Hungary turned and took his hand. "But Gil, don't forget," she said hopefully, giving him a big wide grin, "The English are Christians, and I bet you'll get along with him very well!"

Forcing himself to smile back, he leaned over to give her a light peck on the cheek.

"Whatever," He shrugged, while Austria, who had been watching the couple for some time now, turned away.

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><p>Francis Bonnefoy had been looking forward to meeting this new friend. Since he had been hanging with ruffians like Prussia and Spain all his life, he knew he wanted someone different for a change. Don't get him wrong, he still enjoyed riding horses and fighting wars. But, those weren't the <em>only<em> things that pertained to France.

Which was why, the night before England's arrival, he had stayed up quite late planning all the fun activities they were going to do together. They were going to tour Paris and see the newly built cathedrals that he had spent hundreds of years designing. He was going to take him into his Louvre and bask in all its regalia. They were going to marvel at his resined furniture, stained glass windows, and those delightful Turkish rugs that he had recently purchased. Not to mention, he was going to make England sample his new-found talent in the kitchen, as he had told his servants the night before to prepare the freshest, most expensive ingredients for his guest's arrival. Yes, Francis just _knew_ they were going to have a great time. England was going to see that the sun shined much more brightly in France than anywhere else in the world!

Sadly, he had not been expecting... _this_.

When Francis Bonnefoy first laid his eyes on Arthur Kirkland, he really didn't think too much of him. The boy was a bit shorter than himself. A whole head shorter, in fact. He was a little on the chubby side too, with small rolls of baby fat pillowing his cheekbones. His hair colour was of a dirtier blond than his own, and he had a pair of deep-set, emerald green eyes. The kid had no sense of style either. He was wearing but a loosely fit brown tunic over a plain black cape. Francis couldn't help but wonder why he still chose to look like the abandoned love child between Merlin and his old gardener, when his country, from hearsay, was a reasonably wealthy one.

Okay, Francis realized that he also was also wearing a tunic. But at least it was longer, blue, form-fitting, and, as he patted off a small smudge of dust on the one side, not filthy.

"Hello, England." France said pleasantly. Despite his previous crummy observations, he bowed deeply in politeness.

After resurfacing, he looked back at England who seemed to be reluctant in giving his reply. They awkwardly stared at each other for what felt like half a minute, their eyes locking, blue meeting green. Arthur's thick eyebrows had begun to furrow in what seemed like... confusion, or perhaps fear, while Francis was curious as to what could possibly have made the boy's lips tremble as if he was about to have a fit.

_Is __he __alright__? __Did __I __scare __him __or __something__? __Perhaps__, __is __it __because __he __doesn__'__t __even __know __how __to __properly __reply__?_

"Hi," was what Francis managed to hear squeak out of Arthur's mouth. It sounded like a hiccup, a cough, an insignificant greeting.

How rude.

Then, without warning, Arthur's face spread into a wide, toothy smile... Francis was _not_ kidding. The kid, just, out of nowhere, started smiling.

It was directed not towards Francis either, but at whatever was to the right of his head. Francis reluctantly turned, but saw that nothing was beside him. He looked back at Arthur and asked him what was he smiling at, _but,_ the boy did not seem to hear.

Then, Arthur started speaking.

"Oh _Uni_, you have finally come to visit me! I thought I was going to be all alone with this French prick!" He squealed happily, jumping up and down and clapping his hands like he was four years old. He sprinted to the right of Francis.

Francis could feel a vein explode at "this French prick". Reminding himself of his place as the gracious host, he held his fist back from being shoved into the kid's face. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Arthur who was now locked in a rather... loving embrace with..."Uni".

"Um, England?" England paid no attention, and instead puckered out his lips to make like he going to kiss his imaginary friend.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Francis tried to shake him out of his trance, but to no avail.

Francis kind of felt sorry for the volume of air that Arthur was, arguably, molesting.

He did snap out of it after a while, and apologized half-heartedly to Francis, who took accepted it with a profoundly disturbed countenance. They decided to continued onwards, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Francis fed him some of his most beloved recipes, as he thought that there was no way anyone could say no to good food, not even a queer duck like Arthur. Tender minced meat with a sweet mustard marinade, sprinkled with ground hyssop. Dainty pastries with a sweet, warm strawberry filling. Deep, red wine fermented from handpicked grapes that were harvested from his own vineyard.

Who could refuse such a treat?

"Do you not serve boiled potatoes here?" Arthur asked bluntly, after ejecting a mouthful of chewed fougasse onto the clean rosewood table.

Francis facepalmed.

He had no idea what else he should do in order to fulfill his role as the host. The tour of the Louvre did not seem to interest him, as he unapologetically displayed his boredom with a series of exaggerated yawning and mumbling rudities. Arthur seemed to not be satisfied with Francis' cooking either, which he had _personally_ prepared.

Francis raised a displeased eyebrow and took a slight sip of his wine. His altruism was not unconditional.

Arthur was even worse than Gilbert! _Mon __dieu_, he didn't know why he bothered to become friends with younger kids. They were such imbeciles!

"Hey, frog."

Francis looked up. This was the first time Arthur had voluntarily spoken to him. "I would like to take a stroll outside. Your house smells like rotten dog farts, and it is worsening my asthma."

Francis did not care for the insult he had conferred, but agreed that he also needed some fresh air. So, he and Arthur walked out the back door of his house and into the garden.

It was a sunny and surprisingly warm autumn afternoon. The sky was a clear blue, and fire-red leaves carpeted the ground on which they walked, crackling under their feet.

It was also harvest season for many of the crops in his garden. The squashes grew exceptionally well this year, with dark green leaves, long tendrils and great tasting fruit. Though most of the flowers had already lost their bloom to the chilly mornings, his lilies stood strong against the frost, and glowed with pride under the waning sunlight. Their pedals were white, like snow. Francis supposed that in a way, it was as if they were beckoning winter to come sooner to take their miserable lives. Francis shook at his head at the thought, disagreeing with himself. His lilies stood for purity, beauty. Wonderful things.

Much unlike the fellow walking beside him.

The two hadn't said much of anything since they had walked out the door. Since it was civil protocol for him to at least attempt to make conversation with his guest, no matter how short-lived and insipid, Francis decided to comment on the pleasantry of the warm weather.

"It is quite nice outside today, isn't it?" He said mildly, turning to shorter, still grumpy-looking boy walking beside him.

"Too sunny," Britain grumbled, "Not enough rain. Crops don't grow well without rain."

He and Arthur were now nearing the edge of his property, which was fenced by tall stone walls that he had especially built to keep his home safe from violent outsiders. Two guards stood at the entrance, which laid at the end of a different, parallel path. A strip of untethered lawn divided the bulwark and the garden, upon which Arthur had taken the liberty to sit.

Francis followed him into the grass, and was planning to sit beside him.

"No, stop!" England cried shrilly, "You can't sit there!"

France shot up before his bottom hit the ground. "Why not?"

"Because you are going to squash Minty!"

"Who?"

"Minty!"

England grunted in frustration as he gathered up his other imaginary friend, and pretended to hold and pet it. He was telling it to calm down, and that he wasn't going to let the "smelly bastard" hurt it.

Francis decided that he had enough. Clearly, whoever was responsible for England's upbringing was completely, utterly incompetent. He was nothing but a rude, uncouth, impetuous little gangrel with absolutely no class, no civility, and was in no way deserving of his title!

France refused to be enslaved to his "guest's" wishes any longer!

Instead of saying something in reply, he chose to plop down mercilessly onto the unoccupied spot of grass that he had previously claimed, thus squashing Minty into a pile of bloody, fictitious goo. He turned to look at England smugly.

England looked like he was about to commit murder.

France cocked his neck up higher, flared his nostrils, and pursed his lips, looking even more smug, if that were possible.

England launched his whole body onto France forthwith, making both parties fall onto the grass with England on top. He bared his hands, and was preparing to choke the boy that was squirming under him. "You killed Minty! You killed Minty!" He cried hopelessly, fat tears squeezing out of his green eyes. France, who had much experience with physical combat, wasn't going to let him have the upper hand. France punched him in the face, and England kicked him back in the shins. England tore at his tunic, and France pulled out his hair in return. Soon, they had become a screaming, grunting, tumbling mess. None of them was going to let the other win, and both refused to lose.

After they had fought for a hundred years, or to them, a few minutes, France finally prevailed. Though, it was only because he seized a moment of weakness on England's part by chance. Otherwise, it had been a dauntingly close battle.

England sat up from the ground and wiped the bit of blood from his cheek, panting haggardly. France rose as well, combing his scalp with his hands, trying to get all of the grass shavings out of his hair.

"Good game, mate." England said heavily, still trying to catch his breath.

"Yes, it was." France agreed, placing a hand on his shoulder. Contrary to his refined appearance and mannerisms, France actually had spent much of his life fist-fighting, and was naturally skilled. But, this kid sure made this victory bloody damn hard. He was impressed. It was no wonder that England had become one of the most dominant forces in Europe in these past few centuries.

"What should we do now?" England asked, looking up at the night sky.

"Come, lets go see the rest of Paris." France replied, pointing to the back gates of the Louvre which led them directly to the streets of the city. "You do owe me for my victory."

"Very well then."

Smiling, France draped England's arm over his shoulders, and helped him to stand up. He was the fault of England's pulled ankle, after all. Walking ever so slowly, they made their way out of the garden, and into Paris.

They had been running for a while now, zipping through jagged windy paths and trying not to trip over any unsuspecting object in the dark. It all started with Francis teasing Arthur about his stubby little legs, which resulted in Arthur yanking the scarf right off his neck, and took off in a frenzy. Francis, who thought it would be fun to chase after him, had been running behind him ever since. Their feet shattered what was once a lucid reflection of the moon as they charged into an abandoned puddle, splashing muddy water onto their clothes.

They turned a corner, then another, and another, onto a wider cobblestone street.

"Watch it!" An old lady bellowed, as Arthur and Francis rammed straight into her cart of market produce and knocked a couple of potatoes onto the ground.

They didn't bother leaving an apology, since something else had caught Arthur's eye when he had looked up. What seemed like an orb of light stood in the distance, with a crowd of people gathered around it. Sounds of laughing, cheering, and music drifted into his ears. The music was light-hearted, joyous, much unlike the liturgical chants that Arthur had been accustomed to back home. Inadvertently, his legs carried him closer and closer to the crowd. How he hoped that there would be a real unicorn standing at the end of the path!

Francis followed him reluctantly. He held his guard up, for they were now in the darker corner of the city. He pushed past a few members of the audience, apologizing to them, and finally found Arthur, who was standing at the front row of the performance. He looked so happy, clapping his hands in rhythm with the tambourines, while watching a couple of gypsy women dance in the ring. For Arthur, it must be all very new, Francis thought, as he remembered that the English were rather reclusive and conservative in their ways. Seeing Arthur's jaw drop to the floor at one of the dancing girls who was swishing her naked hips, Francis couldn't help but burst out laughing. The thought of Arthur, of all people, getting stiff from watching that!

"Oh, what are you laughing at now?" Arthur yelled indignantly, not knowing how cutely his lips were pouting.

"It's nothing," Francis replied, trying to stomach yet another bout of laughter, "Say, do you not have people like this in your country?"

"Not that I have seen," Arthur shrugged, "Though I do spend much of my time at home. I am always so busy, and don't have much time to go out onto the streets."

Francis nodded and shifted his gaze back onto the performance. _Right_, he thought, smirking, _Arthur __was __too __busy __talking __to __his __imaginary __friends __to __have __seen __much __of __the __world_.

After Arthur grew bored of the dancing, he moved on to follow the cortege of people that were now flowing into a large, underground tavern. Large clouds of smelly smoke floated out of the small entrance. Francis swore he could feel the ground shake under his feet.

"Well, come on," Arthur urged impatiently, "Don't be a coward, you had said we could tour Paris!"

"Arthur, I don't think-"

He grabbed his hand and ran, dragging Francis with him.

The tavern was crowded tonight. Drunks of all sizes, shapes, and ages were sprawled around on the dirty floor and makeshift furniture. There were people singing and dancing on top of the one big table that already had a broken leg. Though, Francis didn't think they cared, nor noticed.

It was just one of the many rustic bars in Paris in which vagabonds liked to frequent, nothing more. But what did catch Francis' eyes were how Arthur reacted to all of this. It was the first time that he had seen Arthur truly enjoying himself, and he was glad.

"Come, child." A deep, thickly accented female voice pervaded through all the noise. Arthur and Francis turned their heads to see an old woman sitting behind a booth. She had a wore a turban around her head, and large golden hoops hung from her ears, making her lobes droop. She looked advanced in her years, and by her peculiar manner of dress, Francis knew that she was a fortune-teller.

Arthur obeyed her command, and walked over to sit on the ground in front of her booth. Francis reluctantly followed, his hand closed around the tang of his sword. The lady let out a husky, mucous-coated laugh. "Worry not, France," She said, her dark eyes gazing into his, " for I do not wish to harm England."

"How did you know who we were?" Arthur asked curiously.

"I have the eyes of the ancients." She replied simply. She took a sip from her pipe and expelled grayish-blue smoke from her large nostrils.

"What does that mean?"

"It means she can see into the future." Francis replied, smiling. Having decided that she looked harmless enough, he sat down beside Arthur. Gypsies were strange in their ways, but they were very kind people, for the most part.

"That is correct," She said, "Give me your right hand, France."

He obeyed, and opened his palm for her to see. She ran a thick, rough thumb over the surface of his hand, furrowed her eyebrows in thought, and spoke, "You will grow to become an even more powerful nation, France. My best wishes go out to you."

France grinned proudly in return, content with what he had heard. Retreating his hand, he gestured to England, and asked, "Well, what about him?"

"Show me your hand too, child." She said to England, who did so.

She also examined his hands for a few seconds, before reaching her head down and squinting for an even closer look. England was becoming worried by her changing facial expressions. He also looked down on his hand, and decided that there was nothing wrong with it. The lady resurfaced a few moments later with a new-found glow in her eyes. Her wrinkly lips trembled with excitement, as she stuttered, "Y-you, my c-child. You will become... the greatest empire in the whole world."

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><p>Liz and Gil were walking back to his house after another successful meeting. Since her boss had given her tomorrow off, she decided that she would come sleep over at Gil's. It had been a long day, which was why she wanted to make the stroll take as less time as possible, so she could get home (her second home), eat, and go to sleep. But, as usual, she could count on Gil to make her life more difficult.<p>

Ever since they had started their walk, Gil would stop after a few steps to pick flowers from the side of the road.

Every few steps, he would stop, bend down, and gather, not a whole handful, but a single flower to add to his bouquet. Though Liz was in no mood for his bullshit, she couldn't help but be surprised at what her friend was doing.

"What are you doing?"

"Can't you _see_?" He replied cheekily, waving his colourful bouquet in front of her eyes, "Just because you keep whining about having chest pains, that does not mean you are blind."

Hungary grunted, and continued to walk, while Gil continued to pause his stride every few seconds to gather a new addition. Finally, Liz had it. She was famished, thirsty, and more than ready to shed some Prussian blood if he was going to keep acting like this. He knew very well that she had forgotten to have lunch, and was in a terrible mood, and he was probably just doing this on purpose to irk her.

"Oh come on, Gil," she growled through clenched teeth, "Stop being a girl, and let's _go_."

"Well maybe I _am_ a girl on the inside," he replied sarcastically, "Then, I'd be attracted to other men, and not you!" He beamed sweetly against her scowl.

That bastard was on to something, Liz could just tell. She swore that if he didn't cut his crap right now, he was going to taste some pain. She was in no mood for this. No fucking mood.

She raised her fist, and was about to walk over to kill her best friend, but was stopped by Gil suddenly dropping down on one knee, kneeling, with his flowers in hand. Hungary dropped her fist, which Prussia conveniently took and placed a soft kiss on the back of her palm.

Hungary shuddered at his lips touching her skin, and immediately retreated. "W-what are you doing now, Prussia?" She whispered hoarsely, green eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I got good news for ya," Gil dropped his voice into a more husky tone as his face grew into a very Francis-like expression, "Prussia thinks you are awesome enough to be his girlfriend."

"P-pardon?"

Liz had heard exactly what he said, but, she just wanted to hear him say it again. She hated how eagerly her face turned red like a tomato.

"You heard me," Gil was beginning to even _look_ like Francis, "And if you refuse, you would be even more moronic than Roddy."

He winked at her and smooched his lips.

"Yes." she squeaked, turning her whole body away from him.

"What? I can't hear you!" He lied, standing up to hold her by the waist, still clutching the bouquet in his hands. Liz now knew that the flowers were not for his secret male lover.

"Okay, repeat after me, 'I am now awesome Prussia's girlfriend..."

"...I am now awesome P- Hey!" Hungary stopped mid-sentence, raised her arms, and was about to shove Gil into the next millennium.

Gil raised his own arms in defence, but her fury never came. He put his arms down and saw instead that Liz was blushing so much that he had become medically concerned for her. "You're an asshole," she said, avoiding his gaze.

Gil shrugged, "Meh, good enough for me." He freed a particularly pretty pink flower from his grasp, and tucked it behind her ear. She grumbled at her new hair ornament in dislike, but was silenced by a pair of eager lips crashing against her own.

Around them, a bed of colourful flowers had fallen onto the grass, as the hand who had been holding them was now running through Liz's wavy, chestnut locks. A chill of wind blew through the riverbank, making the dogweeds shiver from the cold.

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><p>I love these pairings...<p>

This is the last time I write about my characters as children. The fic will progressively darken from now on.

Thanks for reading! Please review. I'll update faster if you do! xD


	10. ,Fishhook

Hello there. I am back with my new update. Three chapters. This one is on Chu, and the rest are on PruHunAus. No Fruk this time, and the Gerita comes a little later. Sorry, they live in the 15th century, and Yao can't _always_ be with Ivan. Trains have not been invented yet. xD Besides, they need some time off from each other to let the characters develop.

Reply to **History Freakk**'s review:

_Lool. Well, I think Mongolia just looks a little taller and more muscular than an average Asian guy. Same facial features. Maybe skin that is a little more tanned, cause he is more of an outdoor type. :D Long black hair, tastefully groomed facial hair, little rugged. Not fat though... That is -cough-Ivan. No, wait, I don't want to die. I meant to say that Ivan is big-boned. xD_

_Hope that helps!_

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><p>It was early in the morning, and the Forbidden City stood in heavenly lifelessness. Shy rays peeked from above the tower beside which they stood, showering the corrugated roof in golden silk. The air was still. So were the stone walls, the paved ground, and for a second, so was time itself.<p>

All was frozen in a state of wonder, of purity, of absolution.

All was silent, save for Japan, China, a group of servants, and the emperor's chancellor gathering around a roaring fire.

"Sensei, Why are they doing this to her?" Japan asked. He was referring to the woman in rags who was tied to a stake, standing silently around of a bush of cackling, hissing flames.

China frowned, slightly irritated that his few seconds of serenity had been disrupted. "She was a whore," he said, slowly, simply. No more words were needed.

But, looking back at Japan's increasingly curious face, he chose to continue, "She was one of the chancellor's concubines, and such is the punishment for infidelity."

However, China knew that, like all women of the palace, she once danced with riches and bathed in finery. She had thought that she transcended fate, before it stabbed her in the heart.

Japan said nothing in reply, and turned his gaze back to the woman's fading figure. China spared a few more seconds for looking at burning pyre, before telling Japan that they must leave. The chancellor and his servants bowed as the two men passed them, to which China paid no heed.

Behind the palace was a mountain, with rocky scaling and a burly growth of timber. Though its peak now hid beneath the morning fog, on a sunny day, all of Jingshi layed beneath its feet. It was the perfect place for training, which was Yao's true purpose for taking Kiku out so early. Climbing such steep cliffs was the perfect way to build stamina, which Kiku direly lacked. If he were to master all of Yao's sword techniques, he would have to be able to traverse across mountains like flat ground. Much work needed to be done, as by the time they reached the top, Japan's hands had already bled through the thick layer of bandages that China had wrapped. His body had no energy left to even stand up straight, but his determination was enough to muster a makeshift fighting stance, as Yao, weapon in hand, launched at him at full speed.

The incident stabs and cuts were by no means intended to take his life, nor even make contact with Kiku. They were for him to practice how to reflexively dodge attacks and counter them with his own. But, worn-out as he was, Kiku couldn't help but let the blade win at cutting him every once in a while.

Though, he didn't show a sliver of pain as the weapon shot repeatedly, mercilessly at him, letting rivulets of blood run down his sun-burnt skin. Not once did he forgo an attempt at defence, no matter how futile. His sword cowered at his sensei's, but he refused to.

Not wanting to hurt him anymore, Yao threw the sword aside and resorted to hand-to-hand combat. But no matter what Yao threw at him, Kiku never faltered to retaliate, even if it meant breaking his knuckles at trying to out-punch his sensei. By now, he looked like he was about to tip over, but he still seemed unwilling to just... give up. Yao stopped, finally, to allow Kiku to catch his breath. His knees gave out as he dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach and desperately trying to balance hoarse breathing with swallowing blood.

Even China was surprised at his student's vigour today. For the hundreds of years Japan had stayed under his wing, China had never witnessed such relentless ambition, such angry determination. It disturbed him, but not more how it made him feel proud. Spirit saved mere physical strength in the world of martial arts, after all.

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><p><em>It was cool and rainy, the kind of lazy, debonair spring afternoon where one stayed at home, drank tea, watched the rain drape its gossamer cloak onto the greenery outside. However, Yao didn't wish to stay indoors, since it was all that he had done for weeks— writing proposals, signing letters, reading scrolls. Now that he finally had an afternoon off, he wasn't going to stay in his room, which stank of ink and stale parchment. So, he told his maids to kindly leave him be, took his umbrella, and left for a little stroll.<em>

_The air felt mild enough for Yao to not wear a thick, heavy cloak. After months of being torn by winter's savagery, he treasured having misty waters kiss his skin once more. Winter had been more cruel than usual this year, afflicting famine to the provinces that usually never got affected. Yao wrote letters to anyone he could find, asking, no, begging for aid, which was why he had been stuck in his room in the first place. He knew that if he didn't do it, no one would, since the emperor and everyone under him had become too greedy, selfish, and corrupt to care. _

_The people, on the other hand, could only be kept suffering for so long before they revolted. Yao could already feel another revolution tugging at his bosom, like the one he had a few centuries ago, and the one before that. _

_Yao didn't view the inevitable chaos as horrific. Instead, bloodshed cleansed his land and people, like what the rain was doing to his body. __Also, like the rain, when it came, it came. Nothing could be done to stop it._

_He walked through the garden, taking small, delicate steps across the paved path. The garden was still young, and completely flowerless save for one peony he found peeking shyly beneath the leaves. The stem snapped with a twist of Yao's wrist, and the flower fell into his palm, dripping with dew. The petals were an intense scarlet, as if they were glaring at him, mad that he decapitated it. Yao liked that colour. Keeping his new treasure between his fingertips, he ventured on._

_Yao eventually reached a willow tree which stood beside a pond, sadly dipping its leafless hair into the water. Deciding to take shelter under the poor creature, he set his umbrella aside and gazed into the pond. The water was clear, the colour a deep, brooding emerald. There were a few pieces of unrecognizable plant life scattered about, and a school of kois swam to and fro. Yao decided that there were five, until a couple poked out from under the rocky cave. Very well, there were seven. No, nine. Wait, eight. He silently cursed his arithmetic skills, and gave up on the count. _

_He decided that he had become very bored indeed. _

_It had been a while since he had any excitement. Mongolia rarely visited him anymore. When he did, it was about mere politics, and Yao was not one to beg. He had laid with a few human boys since Mongolia had left, just for fuck's sake, but all of them were dead now. _

_Sighing, Yao gazed at his reflection in the water, looking at the face that had not aged for thousands of years. This was the blessing, or perhaps curse of being an immortal. Indeed, if an immortal had a beautiful face, being able to maintain it for all of eternity would be a blessing. But, to him, the word had become insipid in its meaning, after being told by so many people. __He had come to understand that it was a common compliment simply uttered out of politeness, or nonchalance. Even Ivan had once said so, like the stars in the night sky. _

_Of course they were, silly child!_

_Yao wished that he could age, like humans did, so that when he did become wrinkly and hideous, he would have memories to hold onto. Perhaps, then, he wouldn't have to paint his lips a bright red, adorn his hair silver chains and golden trinkets, nor drape on his body this royal purple gown made from fine southern silk._

_If he were truly beautiful, he wouldn't have to mar himself with such hideous vanity._

_A new face appeared behind his own reflection, one which belonged to his boss's youngest son. He was a handsome boy with a well-angled face, deep-set eyes, and olive skin. But, according to the emperor, he was a delinquent child, who, despite being in his late teens, failed to show notable talent in anything. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he was raised by a surrogate who was rather neglectful, having naturally shown an affinity for her own children. Ever since he had been of age, he spent his days browsing around the palace and putting his good looks into use, sending his love to all the pretty women he could find. Maids, princesses, foreign guests, he didn't seem to discriminate. Perhaps, he didn't care. Yao had spoken with some of his past lovers, and according to them, he wasn't too bad at what he did. He had even witnessed some kind of a cold war among the female servants to see who would win his heart. For them, it meant finally leaving their wretched profession to become the wife of a rich man, and none of them were willing to let such an opportunity pass. Graciously, Yao had even agreed to lend a bottle of perfume to his favourite maid in support of the cause. Though, he knew that none of them would win in the end. They were only maids, after all. _

_Yao smiled slightly into the watery mirror. Plus, the poor boy reserved an enthralled, almost obsessive gaze for him, and him only. Yao had kindly rejected his advances before, for pride's sake. But, because Yao was bored right now, he might need to ask for that bottle of perfume back later tonight._

_"What is a pretty lady like you doing out here in the rain?" The boy finally ventured to speak, as Yao turned to face him. His voice was soft, innocent, and a little nervous._

_Yao refrained from speaking, and instead freed his fan from his waist sash, opened it with a swing of a wrist, and placed it near his face. He looked away shyly, for the boy did call him a "lady."_

_The boy assumed this as permission to inch his body a little more closely to Yao's, touching the hem of their robes. He reached a shaky hand towards the flower Yao still held in his palm, lightly plucked it from his grasp, and tucked it behind the lady's ear, fingers almost accidentally brushing his pale cheek. _

_Very well, Yao figured that he had better settle. He put his fan away, gave him a rosy smile, and said, "I do feel a little cold, sire," drowsily putting a palm on his forehead in conviction, "But I left my cloak at home."_

_If he was going to condescend himself to sleeping with this little delinquent, he would have to be in control._

_"Then I shall keep you warm," said delinquent whispered into his ear, his long hair splattering onto Yao's shoulders. _

_His breath felt so warm, and it had been too long since anyone had done that... _

_Finally, Yao turned around to face him. He let his feet slip, as the boy automatically caught him in his arms. _

_"Yes, please do," Yao responded, reaching a hand up to caress his cheek. His skin felt firm, a little prickly near the jawline, and softer down to the neck— like how a man was supposed to feel. A pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and he was reeled in. In response, Yao raised his one knee slightly, and brushed it right between the boy's legs. _

_Yes, he would do just fine._

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><p><em>Japan was not the type of person to concern himself with the affairs of others. He liked to keep to his own, and preferred that others extended him the same courtesy. For example, his sole errand today was to find China, ask him for advice on this piece of poetry he had been writing, and give himself the rest of the night off. He had not questioned the servants why the palace was surprisingly empty today, nor where else China possibly could be other than in his study. He didn't want to trouble anyone. But now, he thought it ought to have been better if he did. He couldn't find China anywhere.<em>

_Walking along the veranda which fenced the garden, Japan thought that he had heard laughter emanating from the bushes by the pond, over the pitter-patter of raindrops on the wooden deck. __He would have dismissed it, if the voice had not sounded so much like the person he had been searching for all this time. Japan stepped down onto the grass and walked over slowly to investigate. He placed a hand on the hilt of his katana, in case he was was mistaken._

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><p><em>As nervous and inexperienced as this boy's performance was, his sheer eagerness atoned for it. Yao, on the other hand, would not allow himself to be disadvantaged in bed. He knew exactly where to touch, bite, or pull, to elicit from his partner what he wanted to have. All men were the same. They all would submit eventually, and the more eager they were, the harder they'd fall.<em>

_Most people who lived in the Forbidden City knew not of Yao's secret promiscuity, and he made sure of that. They fared well in not knowing too much. China was China, not Yao. _

_His past lovers never dared to speak of their affairs either. Yao had his own ways of dealing with little boys with big mouths. But__, he was also meticulous in his choice of time and environment. _All he wanted was just an episode of momentary release every once in a while, and couldn't bear to see too many lives lost due to his own selfish needs. __

_Do what one must..._

_When Yao saw a blurry figure walking closer to the bushes, he knew what he must do. There was a reason why he sharpened all of his hairpins before wearing them... While his one hand was pleasuring his lover, making him growl like a tamed beast, he reached the other up to his head, pulled out a particularly pretty one, and shot it at where he knew was the spectator's forehead. _

_Not expecting a woman's hair accessory to randomly dart out of the bushes, Japan managed to dodge it, narrowly, but not without its sharp edge slashing across his cheek. The hairpin flew across the garden, and was finally embedded into a wooden post. He stood still where he was, as China rose from where he hid. _

_China's hair was tousled, with loose locks sticking haphazardly at odd angles. His lip stain was smudged across his face, and his robe was undone, barely dangling from his naked body. Japan was no genius, but it didn't take much to figure out what his sensei had been doing. He realized it would be wise to hold his tongue._

_After China saw that it was Japan, he was relieved that his shot had missed. He ignored the tugs and pulls from his lover for him to come back, and walked up to him. He grabbed a handful of fabric from his sleeves, and without uttering a word, he gently dabbed Japan's face clean of blood. Japan couldn't help but shudder away, either from the sting of his touch, or at the sight of seeing China's bare chest littered with pink bruises._

_"I shall see you tomorrow morning then," China finally said, placing a dirtied hand on Japan's stiff shoulder._

_Japan nodded and walked away, finally deciding that the advice on his poetry could wait for a few days._

China was his sensei, and this angered Japan as much as it confused him.

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><p>I will leave it to the reader to adjudicate him, lool. He has many good qualities, and a few rather... interesting ones.<p> 


	11. Brisance

Not too impressed with this chapter. But, too lazy to ameliorate it... xD

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><p>The first cannon was shot. It flew across the sky like a meteor and shattered the castle wall with a deafening bang. Hungary's horse reared up in fright and jumped to its hind legs. Refusing to be thrown off balance, she immediately strangled it back with her halter. With the clash of a crop, she began to charge forward into enemy territory with her whole army following behind. Men roared in their rustic tongue as hooves trampled over fresh grass. The flag of the Hungarian kingdom billowed with all its might against the tumbling winds.<p>

Drawing out her sword, Hungary began to slash wildly at whatever drove her way. Heads, arms, neck, chest. There was no discrimination between which parts of the human anatomy to rip through. The first clap of thunder rang across the battlefield, but no one could hear it over metal banging metal.

Liquids were beginning to soak the inside of her armour. She could feel her body squirming inside a pool of perhaps blood? Sweat? Well, what mattered was that it wasn't her own blood. She knew that she felt fine. There was no time to stop, to think, and no room in her heart for mercy. The Ottomans didn't show any mercy when they ransacked her villages and slaughtered her people like livestock, so why should she extend them this pleasantry?

The jolt of lightning was ignored, as well as the torrent of rain that plumetted to the ground like arrows. The scent of ravaged flesh swelled up in Hungary's nostrils, invading her, choking her. She saw nothing but red, and wanted nothing more but to kill.

She saw a skillful arrow aimed at her head, and smirked at the attempt. Tilting away slightly, she bit down and caught the weapon between her teeth.

Nice try, but Hungary wasn't going to let the war end that easily.

Looking up to the archer, she met eyes with Turkey himself. He was a head taller, wearing a long red cape, odd-looking hat and a white mask.

_Only one as shameless and cowardly as he would conceal his identity in front of his foes! _

Growling in rage, Hungary spat the arrow out and charged towards her enemy. Her sword clashed with his blade, matching his strength with her ferocity. One clash happened after another, and Hungary did everything she could to keep him from getting the upper hand, even if it meant using half her body to atone for his one arm. But, she was growing tired, her arms were getting sore, and her chest ached with every heartbeat.

A stroke of vertigo caused her to fall from her horse and face-first onto the ground, swamped by blood and muck. He walked in front of her.

Hungary could feel, in her heart, that her army was deteriorating. She didn't know if she could hold on for much longer.

Smirking, Turkey raised his weapon and bore for the kill.

Hungary closed her eyes in acceptance.

She waited, but death never came.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that he had been stopped by a sword, a perfectly clean one. She raised her head, and saw _his_ gleaming eyes, matted white hair, and that smirk that was at least tenfold more devilish than Turkey's.

"That there, is my girl." Prussia said to his opponent simply, but dangerously. He lifted both of their weapons up from Hungary's neck, and taunted Turkey to fight him instead.

Hungary looked up and saw that the Teutonic knights had arrived.

The rain had stopped, and sunlight finally peeked out from between two angry clouds. It showered the ground below, forming a halo around the retinue of marching soldiers. From a distance, Hungary could hear the priests begin to chant, preparing the warriors for another holy battle. A flock of ravens were gliding in circles above the army, while some found roost upon the bars on which their flag hung. As the Ottomans charged towards them at breakneck speed, they stood their ground and drew out their swords in silence.

The mass of white swept across the battlefield, slowly but steadily, leaving behind nothing but stillness. These soldiers showed no remorse, anger, nor emotion of any kind. To them, fighting wars was as natural as walking or breathing. The ravens had descended and began their scavenging, cleansing the earth. Hungary, and what was left of her army attempted to help the Teutonic knights by finishing as many lives as they could, but in the end, all was swept with the grain.

With a holler from the general, the Ottomans began to retreat. Prussia also freed his sword from Turkey's neck, granting him the chance to stumble away.

They had finally won.

* * *

><p>The clouds had been blown away, allowing the sun to set on a clear blue sky. Gil and Liz decided to stay behind. They didn't know what for, however.<p>

Their horses walked side by side as they sifted through the remains, searching, with every step, the best footing for the next one. His hand was in hers, their fingers intertwined in a lovers nest. They hadn't spoken much, but her green eyes never left his red ones. They may had grown up, and what was previously child's play had become a gruesome reality. But, there were somethings that never changed. Perhaps it was because they hadn't fully matured yet, or maybe they didn't want anything to change between them in the first place.

Liz's horse neighed and came to a stop when a bloody hand grabbed one of its ankles. The hand belonged to a human boy, a Turkish one, who seemed not to be over the age of thirteen. His skull was fractured, and he was bleeding down his face. But despite that, he wore a look of determination, or perhaps desperation. Liz dropped to the ground and knelt in front of him, musing the thought to take him home, and save at least one life. He crawled closer to her, and gave her a weak smile, despite that she was Hungarian. But, Liz saw that he was beyond help. The bottom half of his body was dismembered and probably had been trampled into bits.

Liz thought that this was probably his first battle, and imagined how proud he must had felt to be able to serve his country.

The Turks were no different from her. They were all people, after all.

After extending her hand out to brush a bit of blood from his face, she rose and mounted her horse, and never looked back. Gil followed her in comforting silence.

* * *

><p>Truthfully, Liz hated war. She hated watching others writhe in the pain that she had caused them. But, they must fight in order to achieve the Greater Good. Her country was what she had been born to protect, and she must do so at all costs.<p>

Though she had no idea what the future held, but at least she could enjoy what she had right now. Gil, as if he could read her mind, held her even closer, caressing the back of her hand lovingly. Beside them was her horse that was left to walk beside them, temporarily without a rider.

Gil reached a finger up to her cheek and brushed away the blood that dripped from a scar. "Sorry I didn't come quick enough, princess."

She was going to open her mouth to retort, but instead leaned closer into Gil's chest, taking in his warmth, the warmth that she had missed so much. A pang of guilt struck her chest. She sighed inwardly, how would Gil feel if she were to not survive the next battle?

"You'll never lose me, Gil. I promise." She said.

They rode into the bleeding sunset.

* * *

><p><strong>Note<strong>: The Ottoman-Hungarian wars lasted from the 14th to 16th centuries. The Ottoman empire, in its expansion, originally wanted to invade Serbia, which pulled Hungary into war. And, of course, Prussia and his Teutonic knights helped in a few of the battles that took place.

Pft, Hungary. Don't make promises you can't keep. xDD


	12. Sufferage and the Middle Finger

It was an early September morning in the Holy Roman Empire. Quite cloudy, a little chilly, it was the kind of weather that persuaded even the most diligent people to stay in bed. However, there was only one person in the mansion whose spirit had not been dampened. Despite the early hour, he was dressed like he was attending an evening ball. His dark brown hair had been slicked back, and his spectacles were perfectly clean.

The man was in his study, standing in front of a window with the curtains drawn open. A violin sat under his neck, his long, thin fingers moving precisely across the fingerboard. The music could be heard from every corner of the mansion, but fortunately, it did more to help its occupants sleep than wake them up. Amidst all the ethnic tension and political strife that enthralled the household, they found comfort in getting to taste a little slice of culture every morning.

It had become somewhat of a relentless habit for Roderich Edelstein to play his violin every day at the same time, at this same exact spot.

After stretching out the final note of the piece with a delicate vibrato, Austria set the violin aside and ventured to gaze out the window— A "V" of cranes were flying across the marble-paved sky. Absently, he grazed his hand along the windowpane, in a vain attempt to trace their flight.

His thoughts wandered to a few days ago when he had invited Hungary for a visit. She had agreed, much to his pleasure, and he was to be expecting her arrival soon.

Though, Austria found it mildly surprising that she could hold such a cheerful air around him and their friends, despite the cruelties her country had faced in recent years. It had been a few decades since the Ottomans first invaded Hungary, and it seemed that Turkey was still determined to make her his own. But, the Hungarians were severely outnumbered, and it was going to be a matter of time before Elizaveta became Sadiq's personal maid.

Roderich almost felt sad for her.

When he saw Elizaveta's chariot coming up the hill, his heart gave a slight flutter. He straightened his outfit, and proceeded to walk downstairs to greet her.

Roderich stood at the gates, waiting for the chariot to halt. He spared the driver a polite bow before walking up to Elizaveta, who was waving at him friendly. She was wearing a green, rather... voluptuous dress, with matching gloves and a sparkling emerald necklace. Her face was well-powdered, her hair was groomed, and she wore a flower behind her ear. Satisfied, he reached out his hand, which she took, and they began to stroll back inside.

"Wow," She said incredulously, looking around with wide eyes, "This place is as pretty as I remembered it to be."

He chuckled, "Well, Holy Rome isn't the type of person who welcomes change. So, other than painting the mansion a brighter shade of white, he hasn't done anything to it for hundreds of years."

"It's gorgeous," she whispered, to herself.

When they had reached the staircase, Roderich said, "Be careful, Elizaveta."

Elizaveta gave him a look, let go of his arm, and climbed the few flights of stairs harmlessly in her high heels.

They took a seat in the living room, where wine and pastries awaited them. Together, they chatted about the weather, what their friends had been up to, and whatever else that was on Elizaveta's mind. Roderich stayed silent, nodded his head, and occasionally slipped in his own commentary.

As the years passed, she became more like her boyfriend, Gilbert. Maybe it was how she sat with her legs crossed. Or, perhaps it was the bloody curses that would slip out of her mouth when she was immersed in a rant.

But, Roderich had to admit that Gilbert's traits seemed so much less hideous on Elizaveta.

Taking a sip from his drink, Roderich asked, "By the by, how is Gilbert doing?" Not that he really wanted to know, but figured he should take the initiative to also start a few conversations.

Elizaveta stared at him questioningly, "Oh, uh, he's fine." She answered, "He won quite a few wars, and, um, his people are living quite well under the new crown."

Roderich lied, "Well, that is pleasant to hear."

She nodded.

"And," he continued, "What about you, Elizaveta?"

Hungary looked away from him in silence. A few seconds later, she said, "I'm fine, Roddy," and took a large, loud gulp of wine.

Of course, Roderich knew exactly what had been bothering her, and found it rather amusing that she didn't go to Gilbert for help.

She was a proud woman, too proud. She probably would rather see her country fall into ruins than give up the rivalry between them.

When meal time came, Roderich and Elizaveta ate in unusual silence. Elizaveta had said nothing but "thank you" when his maid offered her the food, and didn't seem eager to converse with him.

Roderich was starting to become a little concerned about her sudden descent into silence, and not to mention, the unusually dainty manner in which she had begun to use her cutlery.

After the meal, Roderich decided to take her out for a promenade in the countryside. For what felt like at least thirty minutes, the two did nothing but step on dirt and gravel while apathetically marveling at the scenery. The conversations that Roderich had tried to strike up failed, as Elizaveta chose to remain in her sullen cubicle.

Seeing that she was wearing nothing but a thin dress, he offered her his coat as an attempt to break the silence, but was coldly refused.

"Elizaveta," he said finally, after the silence had existed for an inappropriately long time, "You can come live with me if you wish."

"W-what?"

"You may live in the mansion, and I can most likely convince my boss to giving your country, or what's left of it, protection under the Hapsburg crown," Austria said, reaching over slowly to take her reluctant hands. "Don't deny yourself, Elizaveta, you and your people need this."

She didn't know what to say.

Tears were beginning to pool in her eyelids. Her coral-coloured lips quivered, but no words escaped from them.

Roderich brushed his fingertips across her pale cheek; the silkiness of her skin could even be felt through his gloved hand, "You saved me when we were little," he continued, his voice achingly soft, but clear, "Now, I must return the favour."

She took hold of his hand and let them down from her face gently.

Without warning, she leaned over, threw her arms around his neck and began to cry. Roderich gave her a few pats on the back, not minding that tears were beginning to soak through the fabric of his coat. He dared to brush his fingers through her long, wavy locks as she sobbed and wheezed, mumbling nonsensical words into this chest.

After a few minutes, Elizaveta seemed to have calmed down a bit. He reached in his coat pocket, produced a handkerchief, and gave it to her.

"Sorry, you had to see that," she apologized, to which Austria shook his head.

"So, what do you think of my proposal?" Austria asked, after Elizaveta's sniffling became less frequent. "Money wouldn't be a problem, and you wouldn't have to live like a vagabond anymore..."

"Oh! Um," she squeaked, turning away from him, "I d-don't know...I'll have to think about it."

Roderich said nothing in return. He turned his head and looked into the distance.

Past the tumbling green hills was a forest, in which the trees stood tall and strong, like soldiers against the northern winds. Beyond it were more hills, and eventually, a city. The cathedral's crucifix was clearly visible, despite all that stood in the way. Now that it had gotten really quiet, Roderich could almost hear the bells chime, carried by the nippy breeze.

"Thanks Roderich, you are a really good friend."

* * *

><p>It had always been that whenever Gil and Liz wanted to hang out, they simply showed up at the other's doorstep, and off they'd go. There was no need for letter-writing nor any other kind of formality. Though, when Gil showed up at Liz's doorstep today, it was to fulfill a hand-written proposal that had been delivered to her hands by his personal valet, two days before. So, she was curious.<p>

He called it a "date".

When she saw her boyfriend standing in front of her door with a bouquet of roses in his hand, she was gently amused.

He bent down and foolishly kissed her hand, before breaking into laughter at the practiced social cliche. After a slap on the face by Liz, he rose up and proceeded to lead her arm-in-arm into the chariot, cocking his head in sarcastic pride as he walked.

"Where are we going today?"

"The moon!" Prussia answered, grinning cheesily at her.

"Really?"

"Ahahaha, no. Paris."

Hungary shrugged with indifference. It didn't matter where they went. She was just happy to see Gil after such a terrible week. Though she couldn't confide in him about her troubles, she was happy with just seeing his face. Letting out a quiet sigh, she rested her head onto Gil's shoulder. He smelt of sweat, blood, and to her relief, clean laundry. In response, Gil put his arms around her, as if he read her mind and knew that she was upset about something. However, he didn't ask what it was, and Liz hoped to God he never would.

They arrived in Paris, some time later.

"Well, Liz, here we are!" He gestured to a particularly big mansion on the street.

"Where are we?" Hungary asked irritatedly, tired from the long ride, and of seeing all the beautiful buildings which lined the streets. She hated being reminded of how her own country was in bad shape.

"It's one of the new restaurants that opened up recently. Francis said that he liked the renovations on this one so much that he decided to run it himself!" Prussia explained, grabbing her stubborn hand. "Come on, let's go rub his shitty food in his nose!"

And, taking another forkful of meat pie, Liz decided that Francis' food was as good as he had claimed. Though, it been a while since she had anything else other than rabbit meat. So, her standards were quite low.

However, not even good food could distract her from thinking back to Roddy's proposal, nor did the trip to Paris, nor did spending time with Gil.

Liz sighed again. Her country needed help, and she knew what she must do, even if it would upset Gil. Asking him, her childhood rival, for help was out of the question.

It was so embarrassing that Roddy had to see her cry like that, but at least he was kind enough to not judge her... While Gil would probably scoff at her for being weak, and yes, he most probably would, Roddy was more than willing to help. They were so different, Gil and Roddy, like day and night.

"What is this shit?" Gil spat, stabbing his roasted chicken leg like it belonged to an enemy. He put a piece into his mouth and swallowed with such exaggerated distain that Liz thought he probably did it on purpose.

"I don't think it tastes that bad," Liz said quietly, silently hoping that Gil wouldn't cause a scene.

* * *

><p>Though he wrote to her all the time, Gil rarely saw Liz in person anymore. They were both too busy!<p>

He had heard from his boss that Hungary was in quite a bit of trouble, and Gil became worried, very worried about her. It seemed as if Liz wanted to vent to him about her troubles, but couldn't for whatever reason.

He hated how she didn't want to talk about these kinds of things to_ him_, of all people. Gil would be more than willing to help her, if only she spoke up.

And she did, eventually.

"I have to tell you something," Liz began, as they walked down the street, holding hands.

Gilbert had a feeling about what she was going to say. He squeezed her hand gently, to tell her that he was listening.

"It is about Roddy."

Gilbert froze.

"_What about him?_" He asked quickly, sounding a little too demanding than he had intended. They had stopped walking by now, and he found himself standing in front of her, arms crossed.

Liz took a deep breath, and looked up to meet his eyes that were now gleaming dangerously. But, what must be said, must be said.

"He offered to help me fend off the Ottomans. In exchange, I'd have to move to his house..." She reached over and grabbed Gilbert's stiff hands, "Which means, I probably won't get to see you as often anymore, Gil..."

For a while, he simply didn't know what to say back, and just stood there, dumbstruck.

The childhood dislike he had for Roderich was long gone. They went their separate paths now, and Gilbert had long forgotten what made him hate his cousin in the first place. No, this was not because of Roderich. He had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all...

"Why are you going to _him_?" He found himself yelling at her, "You know _I_ will always protect you. I'll take better care of you than he ever could!"

She shook her head.

"Gil," Liz gently cupped his reddening cheek, and whispered only centimetres from his face, "You can't protect me forever. My people are about to be enslaved by them, like what they had done to the Bulgarians, the Serbs. I can't let that happen, and we both know that even if we combine our two armies, the Ottomans would still be too powerful."

Gilbert frowned.

"And besides," she added, "_You have your own country to run, right?_"

...Oh, he understood now, and almost felt a fool that he had not realized this sooner. This wasn't about him having his own country to run, nor not having enough military to expend for her sake. He knew. They probably both knew, that his knights would have put up a great fight against those Turks. But, the problem laid in the fact that she simply couldn't bring herself to rely on him completely.

It was a matter of pride.

Liz would rather be brought down to hell than be indebted to him. Yes, they were friends, and lovers. But to her, they were rivals above everything else. She had already accomplished a lot, for a woman, because he was such a gentleman and would usually let her win. But, when it came down to it, Gil sometimes wished she'd let some things go.

"You are right," he said finally, trying to not lose his cool. His face stretched into a fake, wide grin. "Anyways, it is not like we won't get to see each other anymore!" He placed a trusty hand on Hungary's shoulder.

"Yeah," Liz smiled apologetically, and placed her hand on top of his.

"That's the spirit! You know I'll come visit you all the time, and if Roddy doesn't like that, he'll have to answer to my fist!"

He laughed again, too dryly to be sincere.

"I'm sorry Gil," she said, looking away from him. She would always love him, but beyond love, was duty.

He chuckled and shook his head, "Whatever. Today is our day, Liz, let's not talk about depressing shit."

Liz nodded in agreement.

Yet somehow, she knew they'd be together no matter what.

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><p><strong>Note<strong>: Hapsburg (Austrian) kings ruled a chunk of present-day Hungary from the 16th to 19th centuries.

All right. This is the end of my update. **Please review!** Thank you so much for all your support for this story thus far. :)


	13. ,Hungry Top Hats

Okay, here is my new update. Thanks for reviewing and favouriting and reading my last chapters! I have three new chapters here that I had planned to update at the end of this week, but I had to do it now. Sorry if the proofreading is not on par with these chapters. I have the flu, and have to write two exams, so, I was rushing to get it done. Next update will have four chapters, in order for me to fulfil the quota of having at least one ro, chu, or rochu chapter per update. AHHHHHHH! It is just not Rochu's time to shine yet. T.T Thanks for your patience, and please review!

:3 Our lovebirds shall meet again next update.

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><p>Without thinking, Russia grabbed Belarus' hand and ran away as fast as he could, dashing through zig-zagged garden paths of the Kremlin. He didn't dare to take a rest, at least not until he stopped hearing the yelling and taunting behind them. They made their way across a wide courtyard, the moon elongating their shadows on the pavement. The thudding of their boots echoed through the chilly air, as their feet lifted clouds of dust from the ground that the servants had not swept for years.<p>

Belarus tripped on her dress and fell face-first into the muddy puddle at the centre.

Russia shook his head. "Come on, Bela," he urged, "We can't stop now, we'll die if we do!"

She gave a few bloody coughs into her elbow. "I can't run anymore, brother. Just go on without me!" She said, her voice raspy and frail, her breaths heavy.

"Don't say things like that, Bela! You know I will never leave you!" Russia yelled, almost angry that she would say such a thing.

Russia turned his head back and realized that his previous words had pierced through complete, overwhelming silence, uninterrupted by the voices nor footsteps of the pursuers that he had thought were still behind them.

Relieved that they had finally given up, he bent down in front of his sister, took his scarf, and began to dab at the blood dripping from the corners of her mouth. After he finished, he took her arm and hoisted her up from the ground, patting her dress free of dust.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," Belarus finally replied, violently tearing the dirt out of her hair, like how Ukraine used to.

Russia was glad that their own shadows were their only companions now.

He just didn''t understand. He had tried as hard as he could to be nice to those kids, but they were still mean to him and Bela. They called them names and beat them, for no reason at all!

Russia and Belarus had been walking to the dining quarters earlier that night, and they were met by a circle of boys who were at least twice their height and width. They were sons of the boyars, wearing tall hats and a smug expression on their faces. Their dads were so powerful that even Russia's boss didn't know what to do with them. And, now that he was dead, these people and their sons were free to roam around the Kremlin like a hoard of hungry beasts.

Russia knew they had been eying Belarus for a few weeks now, and were planning to take her away from him. They had said that they wanted Belarus as their new maid, and of course, Russia refused.

He had already lost Ukraine to Poland and Lithuania, and even though Belarus lived with him now, her land had also fallen under their occupation. Russia wasn't going to let anyone else bully him and his family again.

Besides, his sister was too pretty to be _their_ maid.

When they had forced her to go, she stood firm. Clutching Russia's hand tightly, Belarus barked out her refusal and spat on the face of the ring leader. The boy hissed in disgust, and with a petrifying glint in his eye, he ordered the rest of his gang to attack them.

Russia would have been able to take them on one-by-one, but when six or seven were charging at him simultaneously, how could he fend them off? So, he grabbed his sister's hand and ran, and never looked back.

Now, they were in front of the gates of the dilapidated tower that they called home. Belarus, who had been standing still in front of Russia, pushed him into a tight embrace.

"Brother, I don't want to live here anymore," she said, sobbing into his chest, "I hate it here. I want to go back..."

Russia patted her head.

It was the only way he could think of to comfort her, because he knew that they could never go back to how it used to be. They were big kids now, and no matter how much they missed it, they probably wouldn't get to taste Ukraine's cooking ever again. His cupped her face and wiped her tears away with his thumbs. Her skin felt as cold as ice, even through the gloves he was wearing.

"Bela, you have to learn to take care of yourself. I can't always be there to save you every time," he said, looking into her eyes. After all these years, they were the same colour as the night sky.

She nodded, biting her lip until it bled.

"Well, you better go in now. I want to stay out for a bit, so I'll be back later. Don't come looking for me, understand?"

She nodded again.

"Good girl." He kissed the top of her head and sent her back inside. After making sure that she was gone for good, Ivan pulled down the fang-like gates onto the ground, and locked it with an iron chain. Carefully, he draped the large bronze key over his neck and slid it down his shirt, shivering at the cold metal touching his skin.

* * *

><p>Russia was all alone, sitting on the top of a few series of stairs. He was holding a handful of pebbles that he had grabbed from the garden, and was trying to see whether he could toss them as far as the other side of the plaza. Though, he only succeeded in throwing his arm right out of its socket, and had to stop. His bottom felt cold being pressed against sheer concrete, but it wasn't enough for him to want to stand up and seek warmth elsewhere. He remembered what Yao had once told him, that sitting on cold things would give him bad tummy aches.<p>

He rested his head on an elbow and sighed.

Ivan missed Yao. Everything about him. His smiles, his eyes and hair, and how he smelled of roses on one day, then lavender on another. He wondered how his angel was doing, and whether Yao missed him as much as he did. Well, he believed that he did, or rather, he _would_ like to believe so. At that thought, Ivan smiled absently for the first time in a while.

People here in the Kremlin treated him well. But, Ivan could smell bribery from a mile away. Yao was the only person in the world who was _truly_ kind to Ivan, and not because he wanted something from him. He supposed that was the reason why he had been so lovestruck by him, and clung onto the man like a leech.

Though they only had a few weeks together, it was the best time of his life.

After spending his days in the Kremlin and being the target of peoples' scrutiny, at night, Ivan would close his eyes and replay those sun-kissed memories in his head. Memories of them walking through a field of dandelions, of them dipping their feet into a lake, of them finally getting married...

Well, most of them weren't even memories, but Ivan chose to believe that they were, for his own sake.

It made him happy.

He often wondered why everyone in the world couldn't be as nice as Yao, like those awful kids who had chased them.

Russia was lucky that time, because the days when they did catch up to him, they would beat him senseless. His one rib was still bruised from their last encounter, and it hurt to breathe.

Well, not everyone in the Kremlin was terrible. There was this one boy he had met several days ago at the dinner table who seemed pleasant enough. He was quiet, had very little to say, but at least he was a good listener. Unlike everyone else Russia had met here, the boy didn't see him as a dirty peasant from the fields, nor someone he must dote with gifts and compliments in order to fulfill his own selfish needs.

Though they had only seen each other on a few occasions, Russia's gut had told him that they were going to be friends for a long time.

Plus, his name was also Ivan.

"I can help you kill them, if you want," spoke his friend's voice from behind him. Russia turned back to see the other boy standing in front of him, his figure towering over his own sitting self. Ivan, the other boy, was standing so close that the tip of his leather boots could have very well made contact with Russia's bottom and kicked him down the flight of stairs.

Russia smiled and waved, thinking that he must have been so deeply immersed in his reverie to not have noticed the other. "Hey Ivan," he said friendly, feeling a little weird with pronouncing his own name, "How are you today?"

Russia gulped. He hoped that Ivan liked him as well, and would also want to be friends.

Ivan took a seat beside him, setting himself down gently. "I can help you kill them, if you want," he tried again.

Russia's eyes sparkled. "Really?" He said excitedly, clapping his hands, "You would really do that for me?"

Ivan's lips thinned into a smile. "Yes, that is what friends do for each other, correct?"

Russia nodded eagerly, like a dog saying "yes" to a bone.

Russia unclenched his heart a little and relaxed, glad that Ivan felt the same way too. When he felt it was safe, Russia asked the boy beside him, "So, were those kids mean to you too?"

"Their families poisoned my mother." Ivan stated, his eyes fixed in a straight line at whatever was in front of him. "They could never touch me, because I am heir to the throne. So, they had to take her instead." He stared back at Russia. "They had hurt you, and her, and they will pay for their misdeeds."

Russia frowned. Though he didn't even remember what his own mother looked like, or whether he had one at all, he could still feel Ivan's pain completely. If anyone dared to harm Bela, Yao, or anyone else he cared about, he would not hesitate to kill them, but not before making them suffer.

"You know what Ivan? You're right!" Russia replied, "I tried so many times to be nice to those meanies, but it didn't help. So yeah, there's no point in keeping these people alive anymore." He gave a cool shrug. "They don't make my life any easier, right?"

Ivan nodded once in agreement.

And, that was what Russia liked most about Ivan. He was really easy to talk to.

* * *

><p>"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Ivan asked.<p>

They were standing on top of a belfry, watching what was happening below.

There were a pack of dogs huddling around in a circle, gnawing and tearing at what looked like a pile of flesh. Blood dripped from their fangs and onto the floor, joining the red lake in which the animals were already standing. Hungry, or perhaps sadistic barks rumbled from deep within their bowels, echoed through the chilly morning air, and crashed into the stone walls of the Kremlin.

It was the first time they had been fed, in weeks.

What had now been reduced to dog food was once human. In fact, he was one of the kids who had been picking on Russia the day before. What looked like a burly, reasonably handsome young boy was now an indecipherable lump of ravaged meat, snapped ribs, and canine saliva. What sounded like screams and frantic footsteps had died down into squishing sounds of flesh being stepped on, and the occasional pop of joints being torn apart from their sockets.

"Oh, yes it is," was Russia's reply to Ivan's question. The last time he felt this excited was when he went to the circus a few months back.

There was a lady standing beside them, who was Ivan's personal servant. Russia turned to look at her, and saw that she didn't look too good. Her face had become white as chalk, as she stared at the commotion below. But as a mere servant, she bit her tongue from saying anything, lest her master, as volatile as he was, granted her the same fate.

Concerned, Russia walked over to her and asked politely, "Miss, are you now feeling well?" He tugged gently at her sleeve, hoping to get a response from her.

She quickly shuffled away. "Don't touch me!" She spat, upon reflex, and quickly covered her mouth as she did.

Russia had only planned to take her to his room and give her some of his flu medicine. That was all...

* * *

><p>"Lay here Ivan, I'll be right back! ...J-Just don't d-die, okay?" Russia muttered, trying to choke back the tears that were threatening to fall. He ran to the water basin to wet the towel in his hand, ran back as quickly as his stubby legs were able, and set it upon Ivan's forehead.<p>

Ivan chuckled. "Every human dies, Russia. What matters is how they have spent the time that they had."

Ivan had stepped onto the throne, declared himself the Tsar at age sixteen, and built an empire upon mountains of corpses. His army was one the most formidable forces in Europe, and successfully eradicated all competition. Of course, none of this could be done without his friend, his only friend, who had stayed by his side all these years.

Now as he laid upon his deathbed, with his blood-soaked memories haunting him, and the ghost of his son bearing a butcher knife against his neck, Ivan knew that Russia was the only silver lining onto which he could grasp.

Though, he was jealous that the little boy he had met a long time ago hadn't changed a bit, while he had aged beyond recognition. Ivan Vasilyvich wasn't the cruellest of them all, Fate was.

"Please don't go, I'm begging you," Russia cried, clutching Ivan's hands that were littered with wrinkles and scars.

"I'm sorry, Ivan..." he said, and closed his eyes one last time.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

- Parts of present-day Ukraine and Belarus belonged to the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth during, roughly, the 14th to 18th centuries.

- After the death of Ivan III, the boyars, a group of ruling Russian elites, caused much havoc within the royal court. They all wanted to seize the crown, until Ivan the Terrible rose to the top and put them in their place.

- Ivan the Terrible (1530-1584), Russia's little buddy, was the most notoriously cruel tsar in all of Russian history. Rumour has it that he had sent a pack of dogs to hunt down one of the boyar's sons, when they dared to question his power. Also, he had killed his own son in a fit of rage, though he deeply regretted it afterwards. Nevertheless, during his reign, he conquered much of Siberia and parts of Europe, and is one of the reasons why the country is so big today. I just thought he and Russia (the character) would be BFFs, since they have too much in common. xD In my headcanon, he was the one who taught Ivan Braginsky the birds and bees of sadism.


	14. Kipferls

This one is not Rochu. The last one is. This is on Fruk, and the children. xD

* * *

><p>Just as he had thought, life as a nation was not all birds and bees for England. Too many meetings to attend. Too much saving face. And not to mention, palace food made him constipated.<p>

But, he wasn't going to go as far to condemn the bastard who had convinced him to come out of hiding. France was right— England could not hide from his problems forever. So, he had decided patch things up with his boss and moved back to the palace. Two hundred years had passed since then, and he still refused to admit that he made a good decision returning to his old life.

It was Sunday morning, and he was sitting in front of the table in France's dining room, waiting impatiently for the food that was taking too long to make. They had made an agreement that France was going to treat him breakfast every Sunday morning, which was what they had done for the past century or two. England deemed punctuality a holy virtue, and also would not dare to pass up such a bargain. Though, the true reason why he visited chez France erred slightly more to the latter.

Of course, he would never admit that the bastard's culinary skills were tantamount to his own. _No! He refused to admit it!_

Rip.

England stared down at the handkerchief that his two white-knuckled hands had torn asunder. Hoping that France didn't hear, he hurriedly stuffed the pieces of white cloth into his coat pocket, and resorted to twirling his thumbs and tapping his feet to mime impatience.

So, why did they do it on Sunday mornings? Well, it was when everyone in both of their countries went to church to become spiritually enlightened. Which meant, England and France were allowed to have some time off, since it wasn't mandatory for them to be a party to this ecclesiastical furore, or, according to England, realize this ridiculous oxymoron.

It was nice, even if it was only for a few hours, and the free food was just a bonus.

But, having been acquainted with France's cooking for a while now, and being ever the perfectionist, England couldn't help but notice France's utter refusal to perfectionism. There was always _something_ that didn't taste right.

"_Francis, the wine is a little sour."_

"_There is nothing wrong with the wine, dear. It is supposed to taste like that."_

"_Like cat piss?"_

"_God had meant to create wine that tastes like so. It is your own sorry taste buds that are mistaken, dear. He created the best of all possible worlds, and therefore, the best of all possible flavours of wine."_

"_Well, to be candid, don't you think He would strike you down for having used his name as an excuse for your own blasphemous culinary skills?" Arthur tried to reason._

"_...Perhaps." Francis shrugged, smirking darkly, as the glasses clinked together in a toast._

Of course, on the days when he would burn the eggs, Francis would debate with Arthur over the nature of "cause" and "effect". It was never Francis' fault that the eggs were burnt; it was the universe's. On those days, Arthur often ended up staying longer than he had intended, because he couldn't find it in himself to agree with Francis. Ever.

So, Arthur's weekly visits were also partly due to his curiosity.

_What are they going to talk about today?_ He couldn't help but wonder.

Francis walked into the dining room holding a plate of crescent-shaped pastries, and carefully set them on the table. Tendrils of butter-scented smoke escaped from the pile of food, as they were fresh out of the oven. Francis had always made them bacon, eggs, and cheese, and he knew that Arthur welcomed change like an old spinster.

Instead of pouting his lips in displeasure, Arthur nodded his head amusedly and gazed up at Francis. "Kipferls," he noted, "Why a sudden change?" He recognized them from when he visited the Germanic states a few years back. They were a popular folk dessert.

"No, no, no~" Francis said in a sing-song voice, winking and wagging his finger, "Not 'kipferls'. _Croissants_."

"Your new recipe, I presume?" He asked, picking one up and taking a bite. Arthur chewed, pondered for a few seconds, and decided that his scones were better. He _personally_ preferred the dry, charcoal taste over the sweet and creamy.

"Of course. I take what isn't yours, and make it mine~"

They ate their in unusual silence. Francis was busy savouring the taste of his artistry, while Arthur was trying to sift through the contents of their meal in search of the fatal flaw, or conversation prompt, that sneaky Francis had stowed away.

And, just as both men were going to take the last croissant on the plate, their hands met. Arthur, because he refused to give up, and Francis, because he was hungry. Simultaneously, they retreated their hands back onto their laps, and stared at each other blankly, as if competing to see who had the better poker face.

Arthur took the baton. "Why, Francis, do you believe that you deserve the last kipferl?"

"I deserve the last _croissant_, because I am a growing country, and I need my nourishment," he explained lightly, "I had just gotten over a terrible cold that almost killed me, and I certainly am not going to allow myself to starve to death." For an added thespian effect, he placed a hand on his forehead and sighed.

Arthur rolled his eyes. He had lost interest in this discussion, and chose not to speak.

Francis had been waiting for Arthur to give him another turn to speak, and began his speech.

"I was thinking, my dear. Why must we be forced to lay low in the realm of theoretics, when there are greener pastures elsewhere?" Francis stood up and strolled to where Arthur was sitting, "We are such cowards, that all we ever do is talk, and don't do anything! I am getting blisters between my sweet lips from wasting all my words on you!"

He leaned his face in for a kiss, to which Arthur gave the back of his ringed hand.

Francis recovered from the blow shamelessly and continued his soliloquy, "Instead, let's ask the nations of the world who is the better between us..."

"Are you implying that we go to war again?" Arthur's voice plummeted into a dangerous tone.

"No, of course not!" France replied, laying a hand upon his chest, faking hurt, "Why would you think such a thing?" He draped his arms over his friend's shoulders, "I meant," he chuckled huskily into Arthur's ear, "Well, you know what I mean."

He did.

Pushing Francis aside and rubbing the ear that had been tainted by his moist, smelly breath, he said, "Very well. Meet me at the dock first thing tomorrow."

Francis stood up, straightened his blouse, and nodded. "Good man," he said, patting Arthur on the shoulder twice.

* * *

><p>The New World now looked nothing like the brutish wilderness on which England and France were forced to set their boots, a few decades ago. The land had finally been tamed of savagery, the trees trimmed, the beasts defeated. A few sparse villages dotted along the St. Lawrence river, with two different red, white, and blue flags billowing on opposite banks. The villages all looked so similar from each other, all with a church and a few wooden cabins. Children were told by their prudish, and often superstitious parents to never venture out of their sight. Though, no one could blame them. The winters here showed no mercy, and invasions of feathered men came as often as thunderstorms.<p>

But despite that, France thought that the colonies were a nice place to live. He, England, and the children chose to settle in one of the many cabins. He made a simple, but sufficient living from the fur trade. It was enough to feed and clothe them, and France had learned that this was all that mattered. The last time he tasted wine was five months ago, when his boss had asked him to come back to do some paperwork, and not to mention, he couldn't remember the last time he bathed with rose petals, or bathed at all.

As the years went by, France had forgotten why they had come here in the first place. Back in Europe, England and France had been so consumed with their bosses' demands that they could only manage to see each other once a week for a few short hours. Well, unless they were at war, of course.

Speaking of war, France had noticed that ever since they settled here, they have become masters at swordplay. There weren't many opportunities to practice before. Too many horses, cannon fodder, and not to mention, the centuries of pent-up anger that stood in the way. What had once been used to bring harm had now become a hobby, an art. France had conveniently hung on their swords on the wall, so that whenever they disagreed on something, the swords would always be there, polished and ready.

France grinned to himself. Why couldn't they have come to the New World earlier?

"Hey," said the voice of a little boy who was sitting beside England.

England chose to ignore the snivelling little thing, seeing no purpose in encouraging it.

"Hey!" the snivelling little thing said more loudly, tugging at his sleeve, "Stop ignoring me old man!"

England felt a vein pop on the side of his head. But, he told himself that one must invest patience and love when raising a child. Though, he had always believed that casting muting spells served the same purpose.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to his adopted son. "What is it, Alfred?" He growled through his teeth, trying to restrain himself from going ballistic. They were at the dinner table, for Merlin's sake!

"What's Frenchie making for breakfast? Smells good, and I'm friggin' starving!" Alfred whined, smacking his arms ungracefully upon the table.

Before Arthur opened his mouth, he mentally laid out all of the things he wanted to say to the boy all at once, and sorted through them.

He wanted to tell him to stop calling his father a "Frenchie", because Alfred was supposed to have been raised into virtuous, loyal young man, who didn't judge other people due to their different cultural backgrounds. Besides, only Arthur got to insult Francis.

He also wanted to tell him to take his elbows off the table and sit up straight. Not that it would help, because Arthur had accepted that the kid was a helpless cause. He just hoped Francis wouldn't dwell forevermore upon the fact that Arthur had lost their bet.

Furthermore, he wanted to tell Alfred that Matthew, who was also sitting at the table, was so much better of a son than he ever was. Respectful, well-mannered, and most importantly, _quiet_.

Also, Arthur wanted to grab Alfred by the collar, shake him senseless, and tell the delinquent how much he regretted the day he saved him from freezing to death in a forest.

Arthur supposed that maybe he just wasn't meant to be a parent. Francis had his son that, over the years, had been spun into a golden boy, while Arthur had his... Thing. Maybe one night, he should tell Francis to disqualify this round and find something else to compete in. They _could_ just see who would be the first to reach Asia, or who could give birth to more political philosophers. Something feasible, _doable_, that would be heck of a lot easier than raising a child.

"Kipferls," was Arthur's brief answer to Alfred's question.

"Hahaha, idiot," Alfred sniggered, punching his old man on the arm, "They're called _croissants_."

Arthur's left eye began to twitch. But, since he was going to break a record for the longest time elapsed between his temper tantrums, he decided to let this one slide. Revealing to his whole family that he could become more violent than a bitch without her puppies was definitely not the first entry on Arthur's list of priorities.

Matthew, who had been listening all along, remained quiet. He unfolded his napkin and laid it on his lap, as he waited pleasantly and patiently for his meal to arrive. Upon seeing that, Arthur's eye began to twitch even more.

* * *

><p>"They're ready!" Francis announced. He waltzed over to the table, and set the steaming tray in front of everyone. Alfred, being the most eager, grabbed a couple with his bare hands and began stuffing them down his throat, much to Arthur's dismay.<p>

Arthur cut a small piece of his own, and placed it in his mouth. It wasn't bad, just like before.

"Mother, will you please pass the maple syrup?" said Matthew quietly, but politely.

How Arthur hated that Matthew's first words of the day had to be... those.

Why did he have to be the mother?

Begrudgingly, he grabbed the bottle beside him and set it on the table next to Matthew, making sure that it didn't land with an angry thump.

"Thank you."

Arthur grunted in reply.

Francis tilted his head up to Arthur. "Would you like to tell me what is bothering you today?" He asked serenely.

"No, I wouldn't."

"Very well then."

The family ate in unusual silence, with the exception of Alfred's occasional burping. One by one, the "croissants" were being consumed, until there was one left, which Matthew seemed to have decided to claim.

"Hey! That's mine!" Alfred shrieked, slapping Matthew's hand away. Matthew quickly retracted his hand to his chest and began to cry, either from the pain, or from the shock of being confronted by his big brother.

Alfred had a tendency to pick on Matthew just for the sake of it.

Arthur shook his head at him disapprovingly, but held his tongue, while Francis placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder, and gave him a look.

Matthew blinked a few times and nodded. "Here, you can have it if you want," he said, though still snivelling a bit.

"Damn right," Alfred humphed, stabbing the pastry with his fork and taking a huge bite, at which Arthur couldn't help but smile.

* * *

><p>Note:<p>

- Reference to Voltaire's _Candide_.


	15. Lenore is just misplaced, not lost

This one is on PruHunAus, enjoy! **Rochu is chapter 13. **

A scene from this chapter was inspired by a poem by Edgar Allan Poe. Lol, see if you can pick it up. It is kinda obvious.

* * *

><p>Austria opened the door to Hungary's new bedroom.<p>

"Here it is," he said, walking the both of them in, "I do hope it is to your liking."

It was a reasonably sized bedroom, one of the bigger ones in the mansion, in fact. If one were to complain about the size, the luxury it contained would surely compensate. A bay window walled a good portion of the room, and was shielded by a wash of velvet drapes that Austria had especially dyed green, Hungary's favourite colour. There was a vanity mirror and desk to the left, on which stood little cases of powder, vials of toilette, a bijoux chest, and other feminine trinkets. A curtained queen sized bed laid on the other side of the room, beside her personal closet. The bed sheets had just been cleaned today, and at least five or six fleecy pillows laid on top of them for decorative purposes.

Hungary, in turn, looked pleased. She dropped her bags onto the carpet, turned around, and hugged Austria, who stumbled back at her enormous strength.

"Thank you so much Roddy!" She said, squeezing his body even tighter, "This is much more than what I could ever ask for."

"You are welcome, Elizaveta," Austria whispered back chokingly, trying to catch his breath. Though, he didn't particularly mind the way in which she chose to display her gratitude.

As she broke apart, he continued, re-adjusting his spectacles. "I have also assigned to you, a maid." He smiled at her calmly, before turning his head to the door, demanding, "Italy!"

A little boy wearing a calico dress and an apron stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees in front of Austria. He didn't look to be over eight in human years, and had short brown hair under the bandanna he wore. His face had sunken in fear, and he could barely lift his eyes to meet his master, desperately trying not to break into tears like he did the last time. "Y-you called, s-sir?" He yelped.

Austria turned to Hungary, who was beginning to look a little concerned, and explained stoutly, "Italy will be tending to all your personal needs in my absence. If there are any problems, don't hesitate to contact me."

"O-Of course, Roderich." Hungary replied.

The little thing looked frail, since he had not eaten in days. But, he wouldn't get to eat until Austria saw improvement in his work ethic. Discipline was discipline, after all.

Austria turned to Hungary and bowed, bidding her goodbye. He strode out the door and walked back to his study.

Hungary sighed in relief, gave a huge yawn, kicked her boots off, and dove straight into her cherub's nest of a bed. Italy, who was still in the room, squeaked at her sudden actions and quickly shuffled over to his new mistress. "Um, Miss Hungary?"

She looked up and saw the little boy, her face flushing in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I forgot all about you!" She laughed nervously and put a hand on his skinny shoulder. "Well, sorry that Austria was so mean. I guess I'll go talk to him about it."

Italy, in turn, stood still as a statue, dumbstruck at how nicely this lady was treating him.

"You don't have to be my maid if you don't want to, and just call me Liz, okay?"

"Oh, okay!" Italy immediately dropped all of his previous fear and jumped in joy, glad that he found a new friend.

* * *

><p>It was an early morning in November, and after Austria's morning meal, he decided that it was warm enough for a light stroll. He knocked on Hungary's door to see whether she would be interested in accompanying him, but found no answer. He assumed that she was probably still asleep.<p>

Stepping out the door, Austria was greeted by a gust of wind blowing the scent of decaying leaves into his lungs. Unwilling to catch a cold, he bundled a scarf around his neck and put on his cap. Walking out onto his backyard, he saw Italy, who was hanging laundry. He seemed to be in good spirits today, surprisingly, probably because he was chatting with someone instead of working diligently like he should. Scowling, Austria strode over. When Italy saw him coming, he shrieked and immediately ran behind who looked like Hungary.

Hungary bent down to comfort him, and turning around, she waved friendly. "Hey Roderich!"

"Um, pardon me, Elizaveta, but what do you think you are doing?"

She was helping Italy do the chores to which he had been assigned.

She giggled, looking at him patronizingly. "I'm doing laundry, silly."

Austria raised an eyebrow, "Yes, but why?"

She shrugged, hanging another shirt onto the rack, "I figured I have nothing else to do. Earlier, I saw that the house was getting a little dusty, so I was working on that. But now that I am done, I have moved on to... this."

"But Elizaveta, you are a guest..." He tried to explain.

She strode over, and patted him lightly on the chest. "Yes, I know Roderich. But this is to show my gratitude for letting me stay here. And besides, surely you can't expect Italy to do all this work by himself?"

Austria opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by Hungary placing a palm over his mouth. "I insist!" She insisted, pointing her other index finger in accusation.

Austria pursed his lips, "Very well then."

For the rest of the day, Austria swore he could feel a burning on the part of his face that Hungary had touched, and decided that it wasn't due to the lye on her hands.

* * *

><p>The snow tapped and scratched against the windowpane like little claws, threatening to maul this centuries-old mansion into bits. It seemed as if the world outside was one huge snow globe given to an angry child to play.<p>

Hungary pushed her hand against the window hopelessly. Though, somehow it felt like she was the one trapped behind a dome of glass.

She looked around her bedroom, at her bed that seemed too cozy to be real, and the closet filled pretty dresses that could never fit her figure comfortably. It felt like everything in the room was too precious, too perfect to be touched by someone like her.

Instead of exploring the rest of her new possessions, she decided to just sit down in front of her desk to read this new novel she had picked up from the library downstairs. It was supposed to be a romance, the kind of romance at which Prussia, as devoutly orthodox as he was, would cringe in disgust.

Giggling delightedly, Hungary wondered why such naughty books would be found in Austria's library.

_Prussia__... _

It had been months since she had last seen him, though he had promised that he would visit. But, she supposed it was a good thing that he didn't visit anyways, as there was no telling what kind of trouble he would cause on Austria's turf. She knew that he was not too happy about her living with Austria. But, there was nothing else she could do. She _had_ to go to him.

She only hoped that Prussia wouldn't hold a grudge against her, like the kind he had when they were little.

Prussia Prussia Prussia... He was all she could think about for the past few days.

She looked out the window wearily. It was getting really late now, and the snow had still not stopped falling. She entertained herself with the fantasy that Prussia would barge in through the window, all smirking and handsome. He would sweep her off her feet and dash them into the snow, so they could disappear forever. Instead, all she saw was a rather peculiar raven perched on the tree beside her window, dusting off the shards of snow that had begun to collect under its feathers. Hungary was tired, and decided to not amuse herself with why this god-damned bird had not migrated south. Instead, she returned to her boring book that she was no longer reading. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake...

Tap tap tap.

She shot up from her nap in surprise, and turned to where she believed was the source of the damned noise.

Her jaw dropped.

Prussia was crouching on the windowsill outside (God knew how he got up there), and was waving at her excitedly. He was wearing a black cloak which blended so well with the night air that if it were not for his skin's uncanny glow, she would not have seen him.

Her heart began pounding wildly, as she dashed to her window to let her lover in, trying to convince herself that he was not a hallucination. Without warning, he tackled her into an embrace before she had the chance to close the window, even before his own feet hit the ground. She tried to speak, but was forced into silence as he assaulted her with kisses. His tongue dove into the cavern of her mouth, almost making her choke from the sudden attack. She at first struggled against his tight, almost suffocating hold, but soon began to return his ferocity, dousing fire with more fire. She moaned against his hot breath, trying to bite his rebellious tongue. He grunted in pain as he felt her teeth clamp down. In revenge, he launched himself back at her and dared to afflict even more savagery into her mouth, upon her neck, as her busty body squirmed underneath him in pain, or perhaps pleasure.

Hungary had been slammed onto her bed with Prussia's knees pinching her hips, their lips still locked in a contest of who could last the longest. Hungary eventually lost that battle, as she pushed Prussia's face away so she could pump air into her deprived lungs. Still panting and heaving, she cupped his cheek. "I missed you, Gil," she managed to cough out.

He grinned mischievously, "I know you did." He took a couple of her fingers into his mouth and swirled his tongue against them.

She giggled, before pulling her fingers out and slapping him in the face playfully. He, in turn took it as permission to dive back into ravaging, nibbling, pulling, biting every part of her that he could find. Though he hadn't gotten to say it out loud, he missed her too. So much. So damn much.

Clothing was no obstruction, as he clawed her dress open with one try and tossed the rag onto the ground. It was a nice dress, fit beautifully on her body, but what was under it was even nicer. She, in turn, reached her hand up to fumble open the buttons of his shirt, tearing off his pants, and casted his clothes onto the ground as well. In a matter of seconds, they were completely naked, their hot, ragged breaths in sync with each other.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..."

That was all Hungary could hear Prussia say, as he explored every inch of her, with every inch of him. Each declaration differed from its predecessor, as he would spit some out angrily, like he was threatening her to love him back, while others sounded desperate, as if he was begging on his knees.

Every kiss, every bite, every thrust, it felt as if he had the whole blueprint of her body memorized. He knew exactly what to do to make her whimper, moan, scream in pleasure, as she clutched him tightly, with all four of her limbs, never wanting to let him go.

"I love you," he mumbled against her mouth, tenderly brushing the long, wavy locks that he had always admired.

This one sounded sincere, and she liked it the most.

"I love you too," she whispered back, laying his head down against the crook of her neck, feeling his breaths against her sweaty skin.

They just laid there, without saying a word for each other. The fire that had once enshrouded them both had dwindled into thin air, leaving small, undulating ribbons of warmth in its place. A hush of cold air blew from the open window and showered snowflakes onto their naked forms. The first rays of twilight were beginning to peek through the window as well, illuminating all that they had striven to keep secret all this time. She cursed them, the lights flooding in the horizon that were only God's cruel joke to them. Hungary was still holding onto Prussia as much as her lethargic limbs would let her, so he wouldn't leave her to face another new day, alone.

Hungary felt sleep beginning to overtake her. Her eyelids couldn't seem to stay open, no matter how hard she tried. Her breaths were becoming more lazy, and her arms have loosened their hold. But she didn't want to lose her consciousness right now, not when he was here.

"Just sleep," Prussia murmured against her neck, drawing circles on the soft, cream-coloured plane of her chest, "I'll be here, as long as you are dreaming."

* * *

><p>Woot!<p>

Thanks for reading, and please please please review!


	16. Austrian Succession: Daddy knows best

Say "hi" to Holy Rome! In my story, he will be reincarnated as Germany. So, I apologize in advance if you personally don't adhere to this theory. I think it will be better this way. :)

* * *

><p>Hungary was glad that she had Italy as a little helper, since there was always so much work to do around the house. But boy did he talk a lot.<p>

She would just nod and smile as he attacked her with waves upon waves of incessant chatter, during all hours of the day. But, she could never bring herself to hurt the child nor give him back to Austria. As much as she hated dealing with children, she also had a heart.

However, today was the odd day on which something interesting actually came out of Italy's mouth.

He and Hungary were dusting the bookshelves in the library.

"Miss Hungary, I have a question..."

Apparently, Italy had forgotten that Hungary gave him permission to address her by her human name.

Hungary rolled her eyes. "Yes Italy?" She said as sweetly as possible through clenched teeth.

"Well," Italy mumbled, looking down shyly and poking his fingers together, "Um, there's this one person... Whenever I see him, my heart starts beating really fast... And I start sweating... And my tummy starts to flutter..."

"Oh, Miss Hungary, does it mean I've fallen ill?" He asked, on the verge of tears.

Hungary's heart melted instantly. _The __sweet __darling__, __he__'__s __so __young__, __of __course __he __wouldn__'__t __know __how __it __feels __to __be __in __love__! _

"Well, sounds like you have a crush on this person!" She answered.

"A crush?"

"Yes, don't you feel the need to be with them all the time?"

"_S__ì__!_ I do, I do!" He exclaimed, jumping in joy.

Hungary inwardly squealed. _How __cute__!_

"Well, now you tell Miss Hungary the truth, 'cause you would be a bad boy if you don't. So, Italy..." She bent down in front of him and crossed her arms, pretending to be serious, "_Do __you __have __a __crush __on __Holy __Rome__?_"

"Ahhhh!" Italy cried, burying his face into his palms. "Yes I do! How did you know?"

Who else could it be? Hungary would be blind to not see how taken Italy was with the other boy. How his face would turn into a bright shade of red whenever he was around, while Holy Rome's would become, if possible, even redder! It was as if the two lovebirds were locked in a contest of who would be the first one to turn into a tomato.

She walked over to him and gently placed his arms down. Italy looked up at her, blinking tears away from his eyes. "Oh dear, sweet, Miss Hungary, you have to help me!" He cried, tugging at her sleeves, "I asked big brother France about it, but all he did was say a bunch of stuff that didn't make any sense and touched me in a lot of places... So you are my only hope now, please!"

She made a mental note to punch that pervert in the gut the next time she saw him.

"Of course I will help, my little Italy!" Hungary cooed, pinching his cheek.

In the blink of an eye, Italy was giggling happily, spinning around in the dress Hungary had given him. "I look as pretty as Miss Hungary!" He squeaked.

The dress was black with colourful stripes. She had also given him a pair of matching boots, a hat, and flowers to put in his hair. Italy looked like he could easily be the belle of any Hungarian village festival, let alone win Holy Rome's heart.

"Come," Hungary said, "Let's go find him."

* * *

><p>After venturing through miles of Austrian territory, Prussia was finally standing in front of Holy Rome's mansion. He knew very well the risks of coming here alone, but he wasn't scared. There was only one thing on his mind, which was to see his girlfriend again the first time in months.<p>

He bore no grudge against Austria for having taken Hungary in. Instead, he actually tried to feel thankful towards him for saving her.

Well, he _tried_.

Prussia _swore_ that Austria must had used some form of black magic to seduce his Liz into becoming friends with him. Now, thanks to that effeminate weirdo, he never got to see her anymore!

Though, he was truly happy that Hungary had gotten out of her horrible situation, and was back to her old self. Even if they didn't get to be together all the time, at least she was safe.

Just past the gate was a garden path that lead to the front of the mansion. Prussia picked the lock, opened the gate, and took small, careful steps onto the property, crushing loose flower petals under his boots.

"Who goes here?" A voice boomed from nowhere.

Prussia turned his head to the right, left, then front and back, but could not find the source of the voice. Perplexed, but still determined, he ventured onwards, and was suddenly stopped by a sword poking his tummy.

He looked downwards to find an angry little boy dressed in a full battle garb, his stubby legs spread apart in an attempted fighting stance.

"Foreigner! Why have you come here?" The boy barked, his bright blue eyes flashing with unimpressive menace. The kid was cute, Prussia had to admit, but he failed miserably at intimidating a full grown man who was twice his height and fought wars for a living.

"Do you wish to kidnap my Italy?" He questioned further, poking Prussia again with his weapon, "Well, you would have to defeat and kill me first!"

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "Um, I've never met Italy before, and who are you?"

The boy's eyes widened upon hearing "Italy". He quickly looked away, trying to hide the blush that was creeping upon his face. "H-he is... _That __is __none __of __your __business__!_" He growled like a lion's cub, "And _I_ am the Holy Roman Empire!"

Prussia broke into a laughing fit, as Holy Rome stepped away reproachfully.

"_You__'__re_ the great Holy Rome?" Prussia managed to choke out between giggles, "That's hilarious, kid, I gotta hand it to ya!"

"How dare you laugh at me?" He wailed indignantly, jumping two feet in rage. Raising his sword again and walking back up to Prussia, he declared, "For that previous offence, I challenge you to a fight to the death!"

Prussia looked down at the boy and shrugged. "Fine with me," he said. Prussia took an index finger and pushed it lightly against Holy Rome's forehead. It wasn't much, but was more than enough strength to make him fall on his back, onto the cold, hard grounds of defeat.

Holy Rome shot up from where he laid, weapon in hand. He was ready to shed some real blood this time, but was pushed down again by that same, evil finger.

"I don't know who you are, little guy, but you sure got quite a bit of guts standing up to me like that." Prussia said, nodding impressively. "I like you."

Holy Rome grunted in frustration.

"I just told you who I am!" He bellowed, his torso shooting up from anger, but only to be shot down once more.

"I am the Holy-" Push.

"Roman-" Push.

"Empire!" Push.

"Yes, right, and I am from Africa," Prussia said sarcastically, sniggering.

The boy opened his mouth to retort, but was stopped by a voice calling from the distance, "Holy Rome!"

Some other kid was running towards them, with Hungary following behind, urging him to slow down. Prussia stood up immediately and waved at her.

Italy dropped down in front of Holy Rome and helped him up.

"Italy, you're okay!" Holy Rome said, hugging him.

"Uh, of course I'm okay," Italy squeaked, batting his eyelashes worriedly, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, uh, never mind..." Holy Rome grumbled, scratching his blond head.

Prussia and Hungary just stood there, one looking confused, and the other smiling giddily.

Italy took Holy Rome's hands, "So, do you like my new dress?" He asked, jumping up and down excitedly.

"Um... Um..." Poor Holy Rome tried to respond through his quivering lips, but could not for the life of him tell Italy how beautiful he looked.

Hungary giggled into her fist, blushing a bit herself. Prussia walked over to her and whispered, "What is this about? Is he wearing your..."

"I'll tell you about it later."

Afterwards, Italy gave Holy Rome a kiss on the cheek, and they happily skipped away into their home. Prussia turned to Hungary and asked, chuckling, "Don't you wish we were more like those two back then, and less... violent?"

Hungary punched him in the arm. "I still am!" She humphed.

* * *

><p>"You got some nerve coming here in broad daylight, Gil. You know, Roddy could have unleashed his whole army upon you for setting foot on his turf." Hungary said, laying her head upon Prussia's shoulder. They were strolling, arm in arm, down the backyard's winding stone path.<p>

Instead of replying, Prussia furrowed his eyebrows. "Speaking of Roddy, how has he been treating you?"

"Oh! Um, k-kindly I guess," Hungary answered quickly, shifting her gaze aside to the pink tulips, "He gave me a really fancy room, and bought me a lot of new stuff, not that I really need any of it..."

"Okay, and he hasn't forced you into doing anything in return?" He demanded, grabbing her hand that had become coarse and wrinkled, ever since she came here.

"No, nothing like that. I do the housework because I want to," she said, her voice weakening.

He walked in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders, boring his eyes into hers. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Liz, if he's ever made you uncomfortable, in any way, just tell me, and I'll kill the bastard." Prussia's tone was soft but dangerous, his words were said slowly, but clearly.

Prussia extended a hand to graze her cheek, which was beginning to feel wet under his fingertips. He frowned; it seemed that Hungary cried more in these past few years than she ever did in her life.

"Why?" she whimpered.

Hungary knew why. Prussia didn't need to repeat something to her that he had already said thousands of times, as much as he loved saying it.

Then, without warning, Prussia felt all of Hungary's body weight crash into him in the form of an embrace, as he stumbled back a few steps into a nearby tree.

"Why are you still so good to me, Gil?" She demanded, digging her face into his chest and squeezing him with all the strength she had, "Stop being so good to me!"

"I'm so sorry..." She sobbed, "It is my fault that we are like this... I'm sorry..."

Prussia scrunched his eyes shut so he wouldn't start crying too, so hard that his face became red and sore. No, he wouldn't cry, no matter how much it hurt seeing Hungary like this.

"Shh.. It's okay, love." He lulled, wiping those ugly tears away from her face. They didn't have much time together to begin with, and they shouldn't waste it like this.

They were now sitting on the ground, with Prussia's back against the tree. "Don't you sometimes wish that never grew up?" Hungary asked after a while, when her voice had finally cleared up. "Then, we wouldn't worry about anything. No wars, no pleasing our bosses, no silly manners and uncomfortable dresses..."

He chuckled. For all the years that he had been her friend, Prussia had never known Hungary to be an idealist, to waste her time talking about her dreams.

Perhaps, they really had begun to drift apart.

Prussia bent down to kiss his angel's head. "Nothing's stopping us," he said, gingerly running his dry knuckles down the side of her face, "You and I can run away right now, and never look back. My ride is just outside the gates."

"You know I can't, Gil, " she replied, smiling sadly, " I have a whole nation of people under my wing, and it is my duty to protect them..."

Of course she would say that. How foolish of him to think, even for a second, that she would ever agree? She was always the admonishing voice of reason against his crazy, childish schemes, after all.

"But Liz, I can tell that you are not happy here, with Roddy making you do all his dirty work and pretty much forcing you to be his bitch..."

"I'm _not_ his bitch, for the last time!" Hungary snapped, glaring up at him, though still not wanting to leave his arms, "Goddamnit, Gil! Don't you understand? I love _you_, not him! Why do you have to be such a dolt?"

He tipped her chin up and kissed her.

"That's my answer." He shrugged.

* * *

><p>I smell tension. o.o<p> 


	17. Austrian Succession: Bergamot

Oh dear, I have never had this feeling before. I'm actually falling for France and Prussia as I'm writing them... :3

* * *

><p>Francis was sitting in a little village pub on Prussian territory with his two other bad friends, Antonio and Gilbert. The other two were conversing, but not about wine, roses, nor women. So, Francis hadn't bothered to join in for the past half hour. He had already finished a couple of tasteless German drinks, and he was done for the day. Alcohol sallowed one's complexion, or so he had heard.<p>

After Tony's ultimate confession that he _did_ indeed lust after little boys, and numerous rounds of Gil's obnoxious, headache-inducing laughter that ensued, Francis wondered why he had bothered to become friends with these damn wankers in the first place. Sure, they had a lot of fun together a few years back, but nowadays, not so much. The dust had settled, and everything in his life had become fixed into one mechanical, perpetuating routine- wine, roses, and women.

How troublesome.

Francis sighed, and took a sip of his wine. Resting his head gently upon his propped elbow, he cared to roll his eyes down the body of the person sitting next to him, which happened to be Gilbert.

Gilbert was a warrior. He smelt of bloodshed, wrought iron, and sweat. His bracing, stone-cut demeanor even intimidated Francis at times. He had a hawkish, almost maniacal glare, even when he was at the bar with his friends. _Must he __go __about __life __with __such __intensity__?_

Now, Gilbert was gazing into the amber liquid in his shotglass, as his blood-red eyes narrowed like those of a predator. He raised it to his lips, threw his head back, and poured it down, letting small rivulets run down his chin. Shivering a bit from the bitterness on his tongue, he finally caught Francis staring.

"What?" He grunted.

Francis shrugged and looked away, pretending to lose interest, and Gilbert eventually went back to talking with Antonio.

Francis had seen the numerous scars that littered the albino man's chest and back, but the thought of getting close enough to count them one by one, excited him. Though, he couldn't help but wonder why Gilbert always kept his head of sun-bleached hair so messy, like it was begging for Francis to comb his fingers down his scalp. However, he wouldn't get to do that today, or ever. Gilbert could hold his liquor better than anyone, and would probably would punch him, or call him a sinner.

Gilbert didn't hate women as much as he pretended to, and Francis knew that.

* * *

><p>"Tony, you hear that a wench got to be Austria's empress?"<p>

"Yeah, I heard," Antonio replied, "Kinda weird, huh? A woman got that throne, after so many people wanted it."

"Women don't belong in politics," Gilbert scoffed, "Like they don't belong on the battlefield..." With that thought, he slammed his empty shot glass onto the table, barking at the bartender to fill it again.

Antonio frowned a bit at his rude comment. "Well, I suppose Liz lives with Roddy now, so she probably won't hang out with us again. What do you think of that, Gil?"

He chortled cynically. "I don't fucking care anymore, she can do whatever the hell she wants," he replied, as if trying to convince himself of the fact.

Antonio had already learned, the hard way, when to keep his mouth shut around Gilbert. He chose not to say anything back, and let the other man continue.

"What's is so good about him anyways?" Gilbert growled, suddenly throwing his arms into the air. "The only reason why that bitch is with him is because he is rich! I swear, that is the _only_ reason."

Antonio shrugged neutrally.

Gilbert took another shot, and swallowed sourly.

A few seconds later, Antonio dared to ask, "Well, what do you think you're going to do now, Gil?"

He grunted. "Fuck all."

For some reason, Antonio didn't believe him.

* * *

><p>"Yo, Francis!"<p>

Francis was riding on a cloud, somewhere in Neverland.

"_Francis__!_" Gilbert shook his shoulders, but received no response. Francis was staring at nothing in particular, smiling gleefully.

Gilbert growled and punched him in the arm.

Francis turned and gave a lazy nod, apparently not feeling any pain at all. "What is it, Gilbert?" He asked calmly.

"So, whaddya say? Wanna stir up some shit?" Gilbert tried again, flashing his trademark smirk.

"...Pardon me?"

Gilbert wondered what had gotten into Francis these past few years. Yes, he had always been the one in the trio who was afraid to break a nail. But nowadays, it seemed like he was a whole different person. He had gone even softer, _too_ soft for Gilbert's liking.

"Goddamnit, France. Get yourself together!" He hollered, giving his friend a rough push, "Spain and I are gonna invade Austria. You joining us or not?"

France didn't see why not. It was about time the group got back together to sweep some trouble across Europe. Besides, was there a better way to spend their time?

"Of course."

Prussia nodded, satisfied, and gave him two pats on the shoulder. "Good man."

* * *

><p>Francis bared his knuckle and gave the door three smart knocks.<p>

The door swung open to reveal Arthur, at whom Francis gave his best Parisian smile. "May I come in?" He asked, raising a seductive eyebrow.

"No." Arthur replied curtly. There was no need for false courtesy, seeing that his guest was Francis, of all people.

"But I brought you roses!" He added hopefully, shoving the bouquet under his chin, which Arthur swat onto the ground. Grinning at Francis, he picked the bouquet up.

"You didn't give them to me. You misplaced them, and I found them."

Having gotten the last word, Arthur stepped aside and opened his door, ushering Francis into his home. He shut it with a click, and clapped his hands twice. His valet walked briskly into his sight, and Arthur ordered him to brew some tea. Extra dark, with no milk and sugar.

Francis set his cane aside and took a seat on the sofa, carefully straightening the tail of light blue his coat as he did. Arthur slipped the flowers into a vase, and walked over to sit in front of him.

They stared at each other in silence as they waited for their refreshments to arrive. Francis personally found it amusing how Arthur still attempted to look presentable, despite his unshaven jaw line and the five o' clock shadow lurking beneath his eyes. He must had had a rough night. No, many rough nights, ever since he brought Alfred back to England to meet their boss. Alfred didn't exactly inherit all of Arthur's _best _traits, if there were such a thing. He must had caused a lot of trouble within the court, and embarrassed Arthur beyond forgiveness...

The valet re-emerged with a silver tray containing a steaming pot of tea, pieces of china, and some scones. Arthur thanked him, and the man left at his behest.

Seeing that no one else was within earshot, Arthur pouted and grumbled, "What do you want now?"

"I have a proposition, my good friend!" Francis declared proudly, clapping his hands together.

Arthur crossed his legs and folded his arms, waiting to be amused.

"Well," he continued, "Since there hasn't been much happening on the continent for many years, Prussia, Spain and I decided to have some fun."

Arthur grimaced upon hearing of those wretched friends of his. Oh, so _that__'__s_ why Francis hadn't gotten the time to visit him, and he was left alone for all this time, stranded on this desolate little island.

"So, I do believe that you have heard of the troubles in the House of Hapsburg, ever since the empress' rise to the throne?"

Arthur nodded. He had heard his boss speaking of that a few days ago.

"Well, we thought it would be a perfect conversation starter for our swords." Francis continued in a weather-like tone, "Since, as you know, Roderich needs to be roughened up a bit. So, since we are nice people, we're going to... help him." He winked, at which Arthur bristled with insult. "Besides, Roderich has a lot of fertile land... Full of-"

Arthur cut in with a chuckle.

"Of course I'll fight _against_ you, Francis," he replied, endearingly and sarcastically, "All you had to do was ask..."

Arthur reached over to give Francis a pat on the knee, and let his hand linger upon his lap for a little longer.

And, during that single moment, Arthur's face actually looked... lovely, and not like if he had a chronic migraine with a sore foot. His gaze softened, and his eyebrows finally relaxed, though Francis still thought they could use some grooming. Arthur was sitting next to him now, so close that his distinct, funny scent was beginning to poke into Francis' nostrils— bergamot cologne that he had bought him for his birthday, mixed with the scent of the burnt scones he had prepared this morning... Of course, Francis would not expect this precious moment to last forever. Most precious things didn't, and that was a universal fact.

So, Francis figured that he might as well ruin it, so he wouldn't have to end up the victim. Taking a deep breath, he let the lie, "I hate you," slip from his tongue.

"I hate you too." Arthur whispered, inching closer and closer to the lips of the other man.

A few seconds later, Francis found himself rolling on the ground in pain, as he clutched whatever was between his legs, into which Arthur had driven a hard fist.

"Don't play me for a fool, France." He sneered, thrusting his boot into the other's stomach one last time before walking off to make dinner.

* * *

><p>Aww, poor guy... xD Getting beat up by everyone.<p>

**Notes****:**

- The Austrian Succession (1740-1748) happened after empress Maria Theresa's ascension onto the throne. France and Prussia didn't like the new ruler was a "she", and challenged her place, though it was more of an attempt to piss off Austria than anything.

- The British allied with Austria, just to piss off the French.


	18. Austrian Succession: Interlunar Dreams

Ha. This mofo is long. It is about the Austrian succession, and a bit of a turning point in the story, for these characters at least. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Austria wasn't the type of man to despise change, nor to welcome it with open arms.<p>

But, to be a nation was to accept and adjust to change for the sake of survival. Which was why his personal thoughts regarding the fact that a woman had become his new boss was rendered insignificant. What mattered now was how he chose to accommodate to this turn of events.

The moment she had stepped onto the throne, Austria had been warned of the inevitable consequences, and had mentally prepared himself to face them. Therefore, when he had received news that Prussia, France and Spain were going to challenge her throne, he wasn't at all surprised. It wasn't unlike these countries to find any excuse to pull the rug under his feet.

Besides, Austria wasn't oblivious to Prussia's growing presence on his property for the past few years. Prowling around his territory, like a vengeful ghost. Though Austria had been tolerant and civil, he knew that Prussia wouldn't return the favour. He had known, since the day Hungary had moved into his mansion, that this day was going to come.

Women were such troublesome creatures.

Pouring himself some wine, he leaned back into his chair and rested his feet on the ottoman. He didn't take a sip yet, but instead took a deep breath and sank deeper into the cushions with the glass in hand.

The Netherlands wrote to him, promising that he would help. England also promised to send in reinforcements, though Austria had never even personally met the man. No matter, the acquaintance would come eventually, as long as he had that powerful navy under his disposal.

To be candid, Austria hated war. Conflicts between nations should be solved through negotiations, not through unnecessary barbarism. But, if Prussia was so craven to talk to him face-to-face about the issue, and had to resort to declaring war on his country, then so be it.

He held the glass of wine in front of his face to scrutinize. Unlike the world that always seemed to change for the worse, wine never went sour. It ripened with age.

It possessed a dull, swirling glow, as if he was holding liquid garnet in his hands. All it took was a tight squeeze and a grunt of anger, to free the red liquid from its glass trap. It showered onto the wooden floor, along with shards of glass. Austria loosened his fingers, and the rest of the shards also fell with a clink. Taking deep breaths, he closed his eyes for a little while, letting his own blood drip from his limp hand.

Drip drip drip.

He enjoyed the music, but not anymore than he enjoyed the thought of revenge. Indeed, revenge. For hundreds of years, the notion had laid low in the back of his head. But now, the time had finally come. Yes, Prussia, that worthless delinquent, will fall, and Austria was going to trip him with his own cane.

After a while, Austria awoke from his nap. He strode over to his drawer and took out some bandages for his hand, as well as a small, wooden box, intricately engraved and lined with gold. It contained something that he had gotten a couple years back, and had meant to give to Hungary ever since. Gently sliding it into his coat pocket, he smirked before walking out of his door and up to Hungary's room.

He gave her door three brief taps.

It flew open seconds later, revealing Hungary's smiling face.

"Hello Roderich, what a pleasant surprise." Her voice was always so bright and melodious. "Won't you come in?"

Hesitantly, Austria accepted the invitation into her own bedroom. Deciding that the light outside was too bright, he walked to the window and pulled her curtains down.

"Sunlight is not good for a woman's skin," he stated.

Hungary snorted. "I spent my whole life outside under the sun. You know that, Roddy." She sat back down on her bed, returning to what looked like... needlework.

Austria blinked his eyes curiously, "Pardon me, but why are you doing needlework?" He asked, taking a seat upon the stool by her vanity table.

"Oh, um, my one dress ripped open." She chuckled, yanking her needle out of the fabric. "Silly me, I now know better than to bend down to tie my shoes when I am wearing something like this."

There seemed to be a huge rip in the bust that she was trying to messily fix.

"Elizaveta, you could have just informed me. I would buy you a new one." He walked over to sit beside her, and grazed his fingertips across the dress' silky fabric, "If you like this style, I can ask the tailor to make you a few more pieces."

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I figured that I had to learn how to sew sooner or later." She rammed the needle back into the dress, almost grudgingly. "Then, I'll make you a shirt or something, if my blasted fingers can survive _this_ project..."

Austria smiled and said nothing. He scooted over to the bed stand, and reached over to the ornate lamp on which it stood. Lifting the shade, he reached into his pocket and produced a box of matches. He stroke one alight and carefully hovered the flame on top of the candle's wick, as a warm, orange glow began to swell.

"Roderich, I heard from one of the maids that there was going to be a war..."

Austria chuckled, before putting the lampshade back on. "It's just a few countries who aren't too fond of my new boss, nothing serious."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" She asked earnestly.

Sometimes, he felt as if she could read his mind like a book. "In fact,I have something for you," Austria said, taking out the box.

"What is it?" She asked, snatching the box from his hands.

"You'll see."

She flipped open the lid, and gasped.

It was a silver hair comb, with the spine carved into the shape of a tulip. Encrusted in it were large diamonds, shining with solar vivacity in the dimly lit room. It had certainly cost him a fortune, and Austria was sure that Hungary had never come into contact with such luxury in her life. Her hands were shaking as they tried to pick it up, as if she was worried that something so delicate would shatter in her blunt fingertips.

"Do you like it?" Austria said, placing a hand on her shoulders.

" I do... But..."

Shuffling closer to her, he curled a lock of her hair around his finger. She shuddered from the sudden touch, but didn't pull away. "You do deserve this, Elizaveta, and more," he whispered, ever so close to her ear. Taking the comb from her hands, he began to run it along her scalp, and one by one, smoothing out those stubborn knots she had acquired from irresponsible hair care. Hungary bit her lip, perhaps in pain.

"Would you do a favour for me?" Austria asked, twirling the river of long brown hair into the shape of a bun, a skill that she herself direly lacked.

"Of course, Roderich."

"There will be a ball for my new boss' inauguration which is to be held in the palace," Roderich explained, as he slid the comb into her hair, securing her up-do, "I would be honoured to have you accompany me."

He took her hand mirror from the bedside table, and held it in front of Hungary's face. Her mouth gaped at her new reflection, seemingly pleased with his work. "Yes, I will." She replied, finally, at which Austria was pleased.

* * *

><p>He had been defeated.<p>

It didn't matter that it had been a surprise attack, and that he was completely unprepared for it. Austria should have known that Prussia would stoop this low. He was Prussia, after all.

He had lost Silesia, and the fault belonged to no one, but himself.

Now, all that was left to do was for him to stumble back home.

Austria was not in physical pain, at least he didn't think he was. The scars on his chest, the bruises on his arm, throbbed with every heartbeat. It must have hurt, but he couldn't feel it. What hurt Austria the most was the fact that he had allowed himself to be defeated by the bastard again.

_Allowed_, like he was a filthy masochist.

What he feared most was the possibility that he would someday accept the inferiority that Prussia had afflicted upon him for the past centuries.

He feared that he would lose the ambition, the desire to fight back. He would shirk from his pride, as a man, and as a country, in order to tail after Prussia, just so he could put Austria in his place, to brand him with his real identity. An identity, wasn't this what he had always wanted? Even if it was one of the utmost degradation?

No, he must not think like this. Thinking had become dangerous.

Pushing open the front door to his mansion with all the strength he had left, he collapsed, face first, onto the cold ground.

"Roderich!" Hungary shrieked, dropping her duster with a plop and dashing over to pick him up.

Austria didn't say anything as she dragged him to the couch, yelling at Italy to bring them the medical kit and some water. He couldn't even bear to look at her in the face. Instead, he just laid there, eyes slammed shut, ignoring her frantic questioning. She did eventually understand, and resorted to dabbing at his wounds in silence. Austria had become too mindless to feel shame when Hungary ripped off his shirt. But when she began to apply ointment onto his chest with her own fingers, it stung, unbearably.

"I've had it, Roderich." Hungary stated, after she had finished bandaging all his wounds, "If you can't fight him, then I will."

His eyes shot open, and met with Hungary's. Her usual kind, clement gaze had been replaced with one of relentless, neon-green fury. Austria shuddered.

"No! Y-you can't, Elizaveta!" He countered reflexively, before descending to a coughing fit.

"Why not?"

"B-because... He is too strong, and this is an issue between him and I. You have no part in risking your own life like this." Austria hacked violently, spewing blood onto the couch. Hungary quickly helped him sit up and handed him a glass of water.

"No, Roderich, don't you understand?" She hissed, "This is not fucking about you! This— " She opened her mouth to say more, but quickly shied away, growling in frustration.

Austria looked away. This _was_his own battle against Prussia, and his only.

"This better not be about you not wanting my hands to get dirty, just because I am a woman!" She growled, snatching the glass from his hands angrily, and chugging down the water herself like it was alcohol.

"Elizaveta, I just don't want you to get hurt." He tried to explain, futilely.

"Yeah, and I don't fucking care," she spat, standing up. She seemed already prepared for the endeavor. Hungary was fully dressed in battle attire with her sword by her side and a musket strapped on her back.

Without even a goodbye, or even a glance, she stomped out the door and slammed it shut. Austria made no more attempts to stop her. Instead, he closed his eyes once more, finally letting himself drown into slumber.

* * *

><p>Hungary's horse tumbled through the fields, leading the rest of the cavalry charge. Her vision was clear, despite the brume of dust that enshrouded her army, and the blinding anger boiling in her gut.<p>

She was determined to shed some Prussian blood, and no one was going to stop her. She had no time, nor the mental effort to assess exactly why she had become so mad at him. She just... _was_.

Perhaps it was because she had gotten tired of seeing him torment Austria so ruthlessly for all these years. Yes, that _must_ be the reason, she told herself. Hungary was simply sick of seeing this injustice play right before her eyes. Therefore, she believed that it was only fair that she did something to stop it. No more, no less...

_The sky was a stagnant black sea, unmoving, unchanging, as if time itself had been frozen. Limbo dangled ominously above the horizon, as if was bearing to swallow the Earth whole._

_The moon was there as well, shining brightly as it always had, watching the world through its white pupil, but never cared to entangle itself in the terrestrial chaos. Hungary sometimes wished she could be like that, instead of having to play the caged bird to her responsibilities._

_Prussia and Hungary sat on the windowsill, hidden behind the wash of curtains. It was nearing midnight, and everyone else in the mansion had drifted into slumber._

_"Liz, don't you wish everyday was like this?"_

_Prussia tightened his grip around Hungary, who sat in his lap, even though he knew she wasn't going leave him anytime soon. They still had a few more hours._

_Speaking often ruined their moments together. Verbalizing the many issues standing between them would just make them seem more... real. She preferred to dwell in the sweet silence, their shelter from cruel inevitabilities, where all that mattered were his fingertips, his breath, and her love._

_"Don't lie to me, Liz. I know you want me more than you allow yourself to admit."_

_She wasn't lying. She would never lie. She wanted Prussia more than anything in the world, and only hated herself for not having realized that sooner._

_"I'll win you back. I promise. I will win you back, 'cause the only way for us to be happy again is to be together. Wait for me."_

_She brought his hands around her waist. He was so warm, and she was cold, always so cold. How she wished she could spend an eternity tucked inside his cradle._

_At least for now, their only witness was the moon._

Stupid Prussia!

Though, as much as Hungary wanted to be mad at him, she couldn't. Instead, when she had first heard that he had declared war on Austria, she couldn't help but feel a certain warmth spread throughout her. When Austria stumbled back home in defeat, shattered and torn, all she could think about was the prospect of seeing _him_ again on the battlefield, and his victorious, disgusting grin.

Did this make her a bad person?

When she _did_ see his victorious, disgusting grin amidst the sea of soldiers, her heart lurched with excitement, for which she mentally scolded herself.

"Hello, _Prussia_." She managed to holler out, trying to gather as much substance, power, into her voice as she could.

Prussia made no attempt in suppressing a grumpy scowl upon seeing Hungary, who had foiled his plan. He had wanted to defeat Austria, damn it! His blood-red eyes flashed a murderous glint that, alone, could have made any impending enemy stop in fear.

Except, Hungary had seen that look on him enough times to be intimidated. She instead cocked her musket at him, her eyes narrowing at the target, his heart.

Prussia laughed bitterly, or perhaps in delight.

"Don't be a fucking coward, Hungary. Shoot me." He taunted, " You know I won't anyone else take my life."

Despite the barrages of sound that were already slamming into her eardrums, she could hear him as if they were together in a silent room.

But, she wasn't going to kill him, she could never bring herself to do it. All the previous anger that had consumed her had dissolved upon seeing her face. Instead, she regretted ever convincing herself that she needed to fight him, her Gil, for any reason beyond their personal bickering.

What made her hate herself even more was the fact that somewhere deep inside her mind, she wanted him to win, so his previous promise could be upheld.

_They __could __finally __run __away__..._

No, she mustn't be so selfish! She cursed herself for ever letting such sick thoughts cross her mind. Her country was supposed to be at war with Prussia, and whether she wanted to or not, she must fight.

Tossing the musket aside, she drew out her sword instead and charged towards a mildly surprised Prussia, who also reluctantly drew out his.

Their weapons clashed skillfully, perfectly, beautifully with each other. One always knew where the other was going to strike, and countered it with uncanny precision. After all, for them, this was but child's play, something they had been doing with each other for as long as they could remember. Their swords weren't fighting. They danced with each other.

"So, why did you invade Austria?" Hungary asked. She aimed a weak stab at the side of his chest, only to be blocked by an equally casual, nonchalant arm.

"I had promised you I would," He shrugged, as he vainly attempted to cut off her pretty head, and failed, "And I am too awesome to break a promise."

"Gil, for the last time, I can't go with you!" Hungary reasoned, despite herself.

She allowed Prussia's sword to cut her arm this time, biting at the pain.

"Yes you can," Prussia said, slicing off a lock of her hair as his sword sneaked past her neck, the blade almost grazing her skin, "And you _will_."

Hungary gritted her teeth, as her hair fell down her lap and onto the dirty ground.

Damn it. He was right. He had been right all along. And now, all she wanted was for him to defeat her, so he'd finally take her away, so the could finally be together. Fuck Austria, fuck her country, fuck her pride. Hungary was tired, just so tired of everything in her life, and especially fighting.

Closing her eyes, she waited for him to take his final blow. Pain meant nothing to her now.

But, it never came.

Instead, Prussia had dropped his sword, fell off his horse, and was crouching, with only an arm to support his shaking body from collapsing. Before she realized what she was doing, Hungary had swung her sword towards Prussia's neck, stopping the blade only millimetres away from penetration.

"Alright, you win." Prussia growled through his coarse breaths, refusing to look at her.

Hungary's heart sank. "Gil..."

"But will you at least kiss me before I die?"

Hungary let her weapon slip from her fingertips as well. She almost felt foolish, perhaps guilty, in thinking that Prussia would ever harm her in any way. Despite her sore limbs, she crawled up to him and cupped his face, awash with blood and dirt. Hungary brushed her thumbs across his cheeks, and bent down for a single kiss.

* * *

><p>A chilling gust of wind blew across the vast expanse. Silence had befallen the battlefield, save for a few hungry bird calls, and occasional premortem screams echoing into the night air. Prussia took a deep a deep breath, and coughed. The air was heavy, laden with smoke and sulphur.<p>

Hungary's body stiffened under his. "Gil, what have we done?" Her voice had lost its brilliance, its conviction. She sounded hollow.

Prussia supposed she was referring to the aftermath of the battle. Maimed bodies and discarded weapons littered the ground, all of which were blanketed under the raw, fresh stench of death. Their bed was made of blood and dirt, and their own bodies were smothered in it.

He chuckled. Silly girl.

"I mean, I love you, but does our love really have to accost so many lives?" Her face was lined with worry.

Prussia didn't know whether he loved, or hated hearing her say that. She had put so much heart, so much passion into those three words, but ultimately, they had proven to be completely empty. She was still with Austria, and he would still be left to spend his nights alone, save for a bottle of whiskey.

"Gil, don't you think we are being selfish, to throw away the lives of all these soldiers just so we could be together? They have their own families, and the people they love. We shouldn't just ruin their relationships for our own needs..."

Yes, the humans were allowed a life, a chance at freedom. But it didn't mean that Hungary and Prussia should be cut off from attaining what they wanted, just because they were nations. Nations could think and breathe like normal humans, and they felt the same emotions. Prussia and Hungary had loved each other all their lives, and they deserve every right to be happy too.

After all, if it was due to human intervention that they couldn't be together, that he had to be in so much pain, then Prussia saw no reason to spare their lives.

"Liz?"

"Yes?"

"I will never give up on you, do you understand?" he growled, grabbing a fistful of her hair and jerking her head up to face him, "I don't care how much blood I have to shed, how many lives I have to take, in order to have you again."

She glared at him, in utter disgust. "You are a monster." She hissed lowly, slapping a clawed hand across his cheek.

"I know." He shrugged.

* * *

><p>Which one of the three characters are you guys attracted to the most? xD<p>

Rochu is next! After sooo long. Bet you missed them.


	19. ,Exile

Phew, this, and last three chapters, is my new update. Just finished exams, and this was the FIRST THING I jumped to. xD Yipee! I hope you enjoyed reading the update so far!

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><p>"You're pulling a little too hard, child." Yao said pleasantly, despite the fact that his maid, having had no previous experience in grooming, was yanking hair right out of his scalp.<p>

Then again, Yao could always groom himself. But, he decided against it, just to amuse himself with how much worse the service here could become.

Ever since the conquest, Yao's new bosses had been showering him with silk and jewels, in apology for having taken over his land, and to hush the ideas of rebellion that they had thought were in swimming in his head. Now, he didn't have to dress, bathe, nor pamper himself. Instead, they had assigned him half a dozen servants who tended to his every whim. Yao thought it was ridiculous that they believed such superficial treatments would make him forget who he really was.

Yao could only chuckle bitterly at this. Even if he had the will to rebel, had he the strength left?

When the renovations did come, Yao made sure that he himself stayed loyal to the previous dynasty, or at least, his aesthetic appeal. He shirked away from Manchurian garbs like a bad cold, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it. He was China.

In fact, Yao welcomed any brave soul who dared to push him down to the ground and shave his head, like they had done to his children. He always enjoyed a good fist fight.

Besides, all he had left in the world now were the clothes on his back and what laid upon his dressing table. They couldn't possibly think of those as a threat to their empire.

No matter how much wine they poured down Yao's throat, the stabbing pain in his chest still could not be numbed. It was there, and would always be there, as an echo of his children's cries. But, this was the life of a nation, wasn't it? Bathed in glory, yet writhing in pain. An impossible paradox.

Yao's torturously slow dressing routine was cut short by the announcement of a guest's arrival. He quickly snatched the opportunity to stand up and walk out of the door, his loose hair billowing behind him. He told himself to slow down his walking pace, to not make himself seem unnecessarily eager. But, today was his birthday, and someone had always been arranged to visit him on this special day every year, perhaps to remind him that the European grandfather clock sitting by his bed was ticking, and that he was getting older.

He arrived at his living room, and took a seat upon his throne. The guest walked up to him and knelt down, only rising after Yao had given him permission. The guest was one of Ivan's people. He took a small wooden box out of his knapsack, presented it to Yao, and prepared to take his leave. Yao offered him a room in the guest's quarters, which he politely declined. Shaking his head, Yao thought that maybe he should write to Ivan to stop sending his messengers onto such perilous journeys.

He looked down at small box, which fit perfectly well upon his own small palm. On it was a childish, scribbled painting of a dragon, at which Yao smiled endearingly. At least Ivan tried, right?

He took the box into the room beside his bedroom. It was at least four times as large, in which stood dozens of shelves and cabinets. They contained pottery, china, and other decorative knick-knacks that must have cost a fortune. On the far left corner was a chest filled with jewels. Necklaces of bleach-white pearls, thick golden bangles, handfuls of loose diamonds large enough to befit the empress' fingers. Yao had no idea what to do with any of these things, other than keeping them in this room for display. Though, no one except for him ever came to browse, and only on rainy, lonely days.

For the past three hundred years, Ivan would always send one of his men to visit Yao on his birthday. Having lived for so long, Yao would have viewed this day of the year as any other, if it weren't for Ivan's punctual reminders. Ivan _never_ missed it, and it was almost eerie how on-time he was. Yao wasn't sure whether the boy knew that these men were not sent on casual evening strolls, but on a mortally dangerous journeys. Then again, whether Ivan cared was another matter.

Yao must admit that he really missed Ivan, and hoped he would have the chance to see him someday. Despite the ongoing tension between their bosses, Ivan wrote to him all the time to keep him updated about his life, and also just for the sake of writing to him.

_"Hey Yao! Today, I saw the ocean for the first time in my life. I found a pebble that was the roundest one I have ever seen, and I think you may like it too. Love, Ivan."_

When the messenger of that specific package asked Yao about the contents of the box that he had been ordered to never open, he was spared a white lie. The man had spent over eight years of his precious human life delivering it, and lost his left foot and right eye in the process. Yao supposed it was to keep him from killing himself upon hearing the despairing truth.

Yao chuckled and shook his head. Ivan would always be Ivan.

He decided to open his birthday present, and set the lid carefully on the shelf next to a matryoshka doll. In it contained a neatly folded slip of paper. Frowning in curiosity, he set the other half of the box down, and unfolded it.

"_Look __behind __you__,_" it read, or so did Yao's limited knowledge of Ivan's language would tell him.

Before Yao had gotten to turn his head, Ivan had jumped out of nowhere and crashed him into an embrace. Yao, who had always remembered Ivan to be that little boy, did not count the years quick enough. He thought that the man who was practically strangling him was some foreign spy, and without a second's hesitation, gave him a hard punch in the stomach. Ivan's tummy jiggled a bit, and bounced Yao's fist right back out.

"Yao, that tickles!" Ivan giggled. He refused to let go, and instead snuggled even more cozily with him. Ivan had always remembered Yao to be really tall, and wondered what poisonous thing he must had eaten to make him shrink so much. Hugging him now was like hugging that pet fox he used to have.

Upon hearing that very same voice, oozing with innocence, Yao looked up, and received confirmation that the grinning, full-grown man holding him was his Ivan. Except for the frightening difference in height, not much had changed about him. Same pinchable cheeks, heart-melting smile, and violet eyes that seemed even brighter than before.

He didn't bother wondering how Ivan went through the gates of the Forbidden City alive, or how he was able locate and enter his room so quietly. Yao was just glad to have Ivan back, and didn't care that he was half a head taller, and not to mention, a little wider.

"Ivan missed Yao so much!"

Yao sighed. There was no point in lying to him now.

"Me too," he admitted.

* * *

><p>Yao was glad that everyone in the palace was in the midst of a large royal family reunion, and they got the garden to themselves.<p>

They were walking down the sun-paved veranda, with Ivan occasionally running ahead to stalk a pair of butterflies, or staying behind to curiously decipher, with the faked air of an oriental scholar, the Chinese letters that have been carved into the wooden beams. Loose flower petals danced in the summer breeze like scented snowflakes, only to be stomped onto the ground by Ivan's eager feet. Yao shook his head. He found it worrisome, and a little endearing, that Ivan's character hadn't changed at all. Ivan sprinted to the edge of the deck a little too eagerly, and tripped on his feet, falling onto the ground below. He climbed back up and dusted himself off, giggling like a little girl, despite how thick and husky his voice had become. Yao stood on his tiptoes and dabbed at the bits of dirt in his hair with his sleeve.

"Be careful, okay? You could have hurt yourself!" Yao warned, poking an annoyed finger at his chest. "Look what you did!" He gestured to the thorny rose bush that, thanks to Ivan's bottom, had been crushed into a bowl shape.

Ivan nodded, more than eager to obey. He wrapped his arms around Yao, snuggling him, while forgetting, or perhaps not caring that they were in a royal palace. For the hundreds of midwinter nights he had spent in the Kremlin, he often dreamt about how warm and cuddly Yao's body would be. He couldn't wait to grow big enough to be able to hold him. Yao was much warmer than the frosty bedsheets.

With a slip of the tongue, Ivan found himself proudly uttering the one piece of truth he had been holding onto for so long. "I love you."

Yao froze, immediately ceasing his petty attempts to shake himself free from Ivan's iron grasp.

He didn't question his own hearing abilities. They were perfectly fine. It was just...

Yao had known all along how Ivan felt, but he thought he had a little more time to formulate his comforting rejection, one that would still preserve the friendship that he had come to treasure.

Carefully unhooking Ivan's arms from his own waist, Yao turned back to meet the eyes of the other man, who was still smiling proudly at his admission. Yao reached his hands up and held his cheeks with both hands. He asked, slowly and clearly, looking into his eyes as he did, "Ivan, do you have any idea what you are talking about?"

Ivan's smile descended. His sudden, steadfast gaze etched into Yao's eyes like a wrought chisel, sending shivers down his spine.

"Yes, Yao, I do." He answered, in a deep, firm tone. Ivan reached a hand to his own face, and cupped Yao's from below. He caressed his downy skin, barely, delicately, as if he was afraid to prickle it with his own dry fingertips.

It wasn't like Yao had never been treated like this before, but since it was Ivan, of all people, he began to feel mocked, almost insulted. Quickly retracting his hand onto his chest and taking a step back, Yao demanded, "Why?"

"Because there is only one person in the world who is good to me." Ivan replied, as if it was an eternal, indelible fact. He had tried to grab his hand again, but stopped himself.

Yao paused, and chuckled politely. "You are speaking nonsense, Ivan." He said with a tight smile, waving a flouncy sleeve in the air dismissively.

"And _Yao_ is going to enlighten _me_ on what love is?" He challenged.

Yao's face fell upon hearing those words, and bit his lip. He didn't particularly care for the tone that Ivan had used, nor the emphasis, the extra pinch that he had given when saying his name. As the most elementary form of intuition would suggest, it implied a number of things about Ivan's knowledge, all of which Yao wished weren't there.

Perhaps Ivan knew about the life Yao lived behind silk curtains?

To be honest, Yao would want to die if Ivan knew the truth about him. As acerbically as he would attempt to justify himself to other people, when it came to Ivan, he just wished that his past could be as erasable as cheap ink.

"...You and I still have to spend the whole day together. Please don't ruin this." Yao said finally, after realizing he had spent too much time staring at blank space, while Ivan stared at his own feet.

Yao took Ivan's hand and lead him away to see the peonies, which bloomed more vibrantly this time of the year than any other. He did his best to avoid his gaze as they walked, and to maintain the uncomfortable silence. Yao tried to convince himself that flowers were nice to look at, and so was the clear sky and wispy clouds. Even watching bees fly too and fro was more preferable than having to face those eyes he had once adored so much, and still did. But, he could feel those purple orbs boring, no, stabbing the back of his head.

Inwardly, he felt regretful and afraid— Regretful, that Ivan was going to be melancholy for the rest of his stay. Afraid, of the seemingly inexorable end to their friendship.

How could Ivan possibly knew what love was, when Yao, being more than twice his age, was still clueless?

* * *

><p>Ivan peeked out the window of his carriage, absent-mindedly waving to Yao's fading figure. When it finally disappeared, Ivan let out a lonely sigh, and plopped down onto the hard wooden seat. The contents of his dinner jiggled in his belly uncomfortably as the horses trotted down the rocky path.<p>

He had a long, boring trip back home to look forward to...

Ivan came to visit with the hope that he could bring Yao back with him, because he really could use someone to talk to, besides Bela, of course. But now, he realized how much of a stupid idea that was. No one would want to live at his house if they had a choice. It was so cold, and everyone starved to death in the winters. Ivan probably wouldn't bear to see Yao like that, and though it hurt to, he admitted that it was a good thing Yao had rejected him.

He cracked a wide grin, exposing his gleaming white fangs to the dark.

No matter, he could try harder next time, right? Ivan could buy Yao prettier gifts, and visit him more often. Teehee, there is no point in being sad anymore, because he knew they would be together in the end. By tenderness or by force.

Oh, just thinking about Yao made Ivan giggle. It made him so happy.

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><p><strong>:D Please review!<strong> I'll be working on other shorter stories over the summer as well, but I won't forget about this one. This will be my first priority, but I also need to expand my horizon.

**Notes****:**

- After the rise of the Qing dynasty, the Manchurian-lead government forced Chinese men to shave their heads as a sign of loyalty to the new regime, and harshly prosecuted anyone who refused. Examples of the Manchurian hairstyle can be found on Google- "queue".


	20. American Revolution: Chlorophyll

Hey, here's my new update. **Rochu is two chapters from now. **

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><p>A sudden gust of wind boomed across the theatre.<p>

Bodies laid on the ground, twisted, mangled, and snapped.

France had been sifting through these ruins, taking careful steps. Such a task had proven to be difficult, and he almost regretted wearing heeled boots onto the battlefield.

France unsheathed his sword stabbed it into the ground, through the chest of a fallen soldier. Blood erupted from his body like a punctured sewer pipe, and the droplets splattered onto France's newly ironed coat. He rested his hands upon the handle, like it was gentleman's cane.

Though the sulfur in the air stung his eyes, France still managed to gaze yonder. After making sure there was no one alive within a safe radius, he took out his handkerchief and coughed, expelling all the blood that had been flooding his lungs.

A gloved hand tapped the back of his neck, lightly, but dangerously. France turned back to see England standing in front of him, arms crossed.

France wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and looked down condescendingly at the shorter man. "You win this round, old friend," he said.

England, who had been tailing him for the past few hours, could tell that he wasn't in the best of moods. And, of course, it had become England's job, no, his sole purpose of existence, to pester France.

"What, is this just a game to you?" he asked, though he already knew.

"Why of course," France gave his well-rehearsed answer, "While dueling with you back at home was fun, I need to stretch my legs once in awhile too.."

"France, you find war amusing, do you? You don't hesitate to dispose of human lives like this?"

"Why don't humans hesitate to eat meat?" He asked right back, in a sickeningly casual air.

He chuckled at the growing look of repugnance on England's face, his button nose wrinkling cutely.

"We are nations, and what else do we do to entertain ourselves but fight wars?" France reasoned further, his tone like that of an inspired ideologist, "You get to live forever, Arthur, with me. And it is a gift, isn't it?"

France winked, and England swat him away like a fruit fly.

"After all, the best way to quell a temptation is to give into it..."

Arthur grunted ambiguously, neither in agreement nor disagreement. He had already delivered enough blows to Francis' ego today, and didn't need to prove him any more wrong.

Francis raised a curious brow. "You don't agree with me, Arthur." He noted softly, slightly disappointed, "Well, then what do you do to entertain yourself?"

Arthur chuckled and looked downwards, kicking an abandoned bullet to the side. He thought of the most comforting answer he could give—

"What I do to entertain myself, my dear friend," he said, boring deep into his partner's beady blue eyes, "is to go through any means possible to make sure that _you_ don't live forever."

Arthur cracked a playful grin over Francis' growing frown.

* * *

><p>The war had taken much too long. But, they were home now, and that was all that mattered.<p>

Much had changed in the colonies. The puddles of close-knit houses had melded with each other, making a long band of bustling, cheerful townships along the St. Lawrence. England and France both wondered which great son of theirs had the spirit to renovate in their absence, and both hoped it was their own. How proud they were, to have raised children who were willing to do what they wouldn't— plow the fields, pave the roads, and harvest the crops.

France had just gotten a manicure, and England was just haughty.

Their chariot finally came to a halt in front of their cabin. Feeling unusually good-natured today, England gave the horseman a huge tip before stepping off. He was happy to be finally home again, even if he had to share it with France.

It was a little dusty inside than usual, as if it hadn't been occupied for months. A good portion of the ceiling had been canopied by cobwebs, and the floor felt sticky under England's feet. France walked into the kitchen, and found that the loaves of bread in the pantry had been left to turn into stone.

England's lips pursed in displeasure.

"I had told that blasted boy to stay at home and do housework!" He growled, throwing the bone-dry water pail at France's feet. "And I bet you my life that the ungrateful little mongrel just took his brother and ran!"

France shrugged. "Well, they're at that age when they just don't listen to us anymore. There's nothing much you can do."

"Yes, well, Alfred's my son, and I do believe I hold the right to reign over him, _Francis_." England countered, glaring.

France, having decided to not trudge through dangerous waters, put his hands in the air in defeat and said, "Well, look, it's been a long trip, and you're tired. We're both tired. How about we just sit down, and I pour us some wine, and we relax a little, hm?"

Though, there were times when France couldn't help but wonder why England was so easily angered when it came to America. He was so much more calm, collected, and... _sociable_ when they were together, though that still wasn't saying much. But as soon as America came into topic, he became more volatile than Hungarian politics. As much as France cared about America, there were times when he thought of him as a... problem.

France walked to the liquor shelf and took out a bottle, some glasses, and a tray. England dragged his feet to the sofa and did a bodyslam.

England, though displeased with America for having broken the rules, couldn't help but feel a little worried about the child. The world was a big place, and he would rather not have America see much of it. If he knew too much, then he would turn around and stab England in the back, like what England had done to his own siblings many years ago.

He let out a deep breath. Parenting was such a pain...

"I fail to see what you are concerned about," France said, joining him on the sofa. He untied his apron and set it aside. "No matter how many churches we build, this is still their land. We're the guests, and they ought to learn to run it themselves, right?"

England was too tired to lift up a limb and strike him in the face, and only managed to shoot him another death glare.

"Ah," sighed France dreamily, staring at the bottle of wine like it was his long lost love, "You have no idea how long I have waited to crack this open. We have been gone for twenty years, Arthur!" He expertly twisted the screw, popped the cork, and took a swig. "Don't you wish women would age like wine?"

"They age like milk, Francis." England managed to mutter over his growing headache.

* * *

><p>The front door opened with a bang, and two teenage-looking boys stumbled into the house. Both had short, sandy-blonde hair, and spoke, in England's opinion, a vulgar version of English. Both were a bit tall for their age, and had similar facial features.<p>

"That was fun, huh?" America asked, punching Canada in the arm.

"Alfred, what were you thinking? They'd send us to jail if they caught us!" Canada yelled, which sounded more like a whisper.

"Psht," America swat his hand dismissively, "They never could. And besides, even if they did, what could they do? Mum and Dad would come kick their ass!"

Canada was going to suggest that, thankfully, Mum and Dad weren't here, or else he and Alfred would be the ones getting their "asses kicked."

And, Canada's worst fears were immediately confirmed when he saw England standing in front of them with a poisonously green glare about his eyes.

England didn't know where to begin. They probably had not been at home for months, though he had told them specifically to not leave the county. By the looks on their faces, they probably had just robbed a bank.

"Mother, I can explain— " Canada's voice squirmed in, but was cut off by England, who turned to America.

"Alfred!" England growled at America, whose handsome, boyish face looked as smug as ever, "You wretched child! I would have expected this behaviour from you, but you have no business endangering Matthew like that!"

America shrugged. "Well, it was _his_ idea," he said coolly, pointing to his quivering brother, "We were all out of money, and like, you expect us to eat tree bark or somethin'?"

England wouldn't have any of it. He and France had given them more than enough money when they left for Europe, and not to mention, he had already taught the children how to sustain a manageable economy— the most fundamental skill of being a nation, so they _wouldn't_ starve when worse came to worst.

No, the fault was not his own.

England took a deep, trembling breath. "Look, America. Don't lie to me. Hell would freeze over before Canada would—"

"_Oh shut the hell up, old man!_"

"I beg your pardon?" England raised a furry eyebrow.

"It's _always_ about Matthew, isn't it?" America hissed, as Canada whimpered at his name being called, "Matthew this, Matthew that. He's perfect! He never does _anything_ wrong! He's the fucking saint, and I'm just the runt that no one wants, right?"

"_Right?_" He walked up to the other man and shoved him.

England recovered from the blow and shoved him back even harder, despite that his son had grown much larger than he was. "Damn right, you little wanker!" England barked, "At least Matthew doesn't piss his pants like a dirty wench when the feathered men come to invade him!"

Canada hated that they were arguing about him, and hated even more that he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Instead, he just stood there and watched the two go back and forth like a violent tennis match. His face had been so drained of blood that it was beginning to look translucent.

Behind them, on the couch, France found himself chugging down more alcohol than he had intended.

* * *

><p>France wasn't drunk. He loved to pretend to be drunk, because it pulled him out of unnecessary situations like the one playing before him right now.<p>

"Mum, don't you understand? You're strangling me!" America cried. His voice had begun to crack after hours of yelling. "I am not some slave that you chain up and tax to your heart's content!" He grabbed England's collar and shook, "I'm your fucking son!"

Lightning cracked across the room, followed by a roll of thunder, rattling the loosely fit door.

Canada shrieked jumped five feet in the air.

France knew that the boy hated thunderstorms, and if he weren't "drunk", he'd be holding him, petting his head, and singing him to sleep. But, that was a bit of a hassle, and he didn't feel up to it. Instead, France held the wine bottle above his head, and emptied it all into his gaping mouth.

England pushed America off of himself, and slapped him across his face with his ringed hand.

"Little shit, you still remember that you're my fucking son?" He screeched, foaming at the mouth. He had tried to hit America again, but Canada held him back. "If I hadn't saved you, you would have frozen to death, left to be ripped apart by dogs!"

America clutched his cheek, feeling blood beginning to flow out from the side of his face. His jaw dropped to the floor, and so did his knees, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a painful thud.

No one had hit him in his life, ever! It was always he who hit others, and now, it hurt, hurt so much.

France sighed to himself, but not loudly enough so that they could hear. For years, he had been trying to offer England some parenting lessons, but he never agreed to them. So, in the meanwhile, France could only feel sorry for America.

France got up and pretended to stumble over to where everyone else was, hoping to instill some peace.

"What a lovely evening, don't you gentlemen agree?" France slurred, tenderly draping an arm around America and pulled him to the side, effectively stopping him from giving England a concussion. America grew stiff, and looked at him awkwardly.

"Get away, Francis!" England growled, as he tried to fight against Canada's failing grasp, "Tonight, I will show this dirty mutt—"

"Who're you calling a mutt?"

America rolled up his sleeves, and was about to stomp over to him, but was pulled back by France, who snaked his arms around his waist and turned him around.

France reached a hand up and wiped off the blood on the side of America's cheek. "Oh, poor, poor Alfred," Francis purred into his ear,"He's a bastard, isn't he, for having done this to you?" He gave a light nip at his lobe, and swirled a tongue along America's neck, tasting the grains of salt.

England stood there, frozen, not knowing what to say, or how to think.

_Francis_... was... touching his _son_...?

America had dropped all of the previous rage, and just stood there. Every part of his body had become stiff, his limbs, his spine.

"Dad... W-What are you doing?" His mighty roars had been reduced to a mere yelp.

"Giving you a chance at redemption," France whispered, loudly enough for England to hear. Smirking, he tipped America's chin, and captured him into a well-practiced, passionate kiss.

England, at that time, couldn't figure out which one of the two he should be mad at.

Canada, by this time, had collapsed onto the floor from hypertension.

When America had finally found the strength, he shoved Francis off of him and wiped his mouth clean. "Alright, I've had it!" He hollered, throwing his arms in the air, "You're all freaks! Freaks! Every one of you!"

He turned his heel, strode to the door, and slammed it shut.

France turned to England, who wasn't looking too pleased, to say the least.

"Sorry, love. I was drunk..."

This house had been peaceful, once upon a time.

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><p><strong>Note:<strong>

- The American Revolution happened in the latter half of the 18th century, where the Thirteen Colonies of New England joined together to break free from the British Empire. This was due to the pressures that the British Empire had placed upon the colonies, like high taxation outlined in the Stamp and Tea Acts. France helped the Americans, once again, just to piss off the English.

I hope this is a slightly more fair portrayal of the American Revolution than what happened in the episodes. I'm pretty sure that Iggy was being a bit of a dick to Alfred, so it wasn't completely Al's fault that he rebelled.


	21. American Revolution: Poison in his snuff

**Rochu is the next one.** This one is on Fruk.

I am so sorry guys. I know I promised in the story description to keep Fruk on a down-low, and I've failed you all. xD

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><p>England's knees faltered as he collapsed into a muddy puddle on the side of an abandoned street. His legs were numb from hours of running under pounding sleet, and so was every part of his body.<p>

It was over. England had lost America.

His mouth tasted like bile, and his heart threatened to break free with every beat.

England chuckled. It was no wonder that he wasn't able to chain down his bastard son. He couldn't even keep that wretched ball of flesh between his ribs from rebelling.

That idiot boy, there was no way he could have had the wit to rally up the soldiers, infest their minds with liberal filth, and incept a revolution. There was no way Alfred could have done anything other than scream, whine, and throw tantrums like a jungle beast.

No, if it hadn't been for France, England would have defeated America and sent him on a chariot ride to hell.

America had been a sweet boy, once upon a time. He had a nice smile, and though his laugh could give a dead man a migraine, at least he was manageable. England gave him food, immigrants, and a vibrant little economy, which easily got him to behave until he got hungry again.

But when America grew up and learned how to talk, everything came crashing down.

Yes, England would trade for a well-tamed Canada anyday.

But, he _vehemently _denied that his own parenting skills were inferior to that of France.

No. No. No!

There was no way he had been a bad parent! He gave that rascal everything he needed! It was America who was too greedy, and let himself fall into France's lap like a dog. Yes, England admitted that sometimes he could be a _little_ demanding. But, that was only because he couldn't bear to see America hurt, or make a fool out of himself!

Sometimes, England thought maybe he should just quit living in the outside world. England was so tired of trying to fathom the dirty, sneaky minds of people. The Flying Mint Bunny was a much better friend, and didn't need anything other than to be fondled with every once in awhile. The Flying Mint Bunny would never seduce his son, sell him weapons, probably do some other unspeakable things to him!

England shook his head vigourously, as if that would dry him of the cold, sticky rain. How he wanted to collapse into the puddle in front of him and sleep off this pounding, throbbing, _blinding_ headache!

Fuck, he had not been able to sleep well ever since the night when France kissed America. England knew, _knew _that they had been planning to usurp him.

For the past few years, all Francis had done was talk to Alfred, who seemed to be blissfully innocent from all of this. While Arthur, green with envy, went through all means possible to cut off their relations.

He, on multiple occasions, invited Francis out for coffee or a stroll. But, Francis politely declined all of his offers, while taking the bouquet of roses that Arthur had shoved in his face with a goofy smile and shutting the door behind him.

Though, Arthur wasn't really sure of his true motive for doing this. Perhaps it was only to save an innocent child from being preyed upon by Europe's most notorious sex criminal...

Arthur laughed humourlessly. Having been friends with Francis Bonnefoy for centuries, he should have known that he would stick to little Alfred like a bee to honey. That sly old fox, he'd only prey on little boys because he was too much of a coward to rise up to a real challenge!

England gripped his shaking fists until he drew blood. Staring at his own reflection in the filthy water, his lips stretched into a tight grin. Oh yes, France was going to get it the next time. No one made a fool out of Arthur Kirkland, and left him to rot like a lonely widow!

"Delightful weather, isn't it?" France's melodious voice wriggled into England's ears like maggots.

England jabbed his sword into the ground for support, stood up slowly, and walked in front of Francis until the collars of their coats touched. Though France was a head taller than England, he was as thin as a coat rack. If England really wanted to, he could snap him in half effortlessly.

He had always thought that France's only redeeming trait was the colour of his eyes. Though today, all he could think about was ripping them out and boiling them in a cauldron.

But of course, he chose not make those thoughts readable on his face, and maintained his serenity.

England put on his most dazzling smile, and replied to his previous remark with an even more pleasant tone, "Why yes, Francis, darling. It is raining, so you wouldn't have to bathe again for the next decade."

"How you imbrue me, Arthur!" France cried, pretending to be in pain, "Ever since I met you, I have made it my utmost mission to wash everyday, so you wouldn't complain about how I smell like a British caveman!"

England shook his head and smiled, trying to not display his anger. He extended a hand and ran his fingers through the other's hair, while tugging hard enough to make it hurt, just a little.

"So, dear Francis, please do tell of your intentions for visiting me on this fine, fine day—"

France mumbled into England's ear, "Well, dear Arthur, do you not remember the battles we shared back in Europe? You had sifted through the ruins to come visit me afterwards. Now, it is only in a gentleman's best interest to do the same."

France's words, like little fangs, bit into England's pride. It stang, as much as England didn't want it to.

He had meant to make a more intelligent comment. But, all England could come up with was, "Well, tell me, Francis, why did you choose Alfred over me? _What does he have that I don't?_" England found himself clutching France's' collar, rattling him, almost lifting him up from the ground.

"Get off me, Arthur." France's breath ghosted his face.

England got off him.

France stepped back and straightened his outfit. He said, slowly and clearly, "I have already pawned half the world, for your sake. What more do you want from me? A wedding ring?"

France stood still, looking into England's acid-green eyes for what felt like... half a minute? (He rested his hand on his pocketwatch, and was counting the ticks.) Before he had a chance to break the silence, a pair of lips tackled into him. France's eyes shot open to see England clutching his face, pushing his smelly, wet mouth against his own.

France decided to wait patiently to let England's finish, while enjoying the bitter alkaline taste of his tongue that he knew all too well. But, England seemed to hate his lack of response, and vengefully sank his teeth into the other man's lip. France growled in pain, and pushed him back. Blood dripped from his mouth and down his neck, soaking the white lace on his collar.

For a long time, England refused to even look at him. His face had reddened to the roots of his ear. It was raining even harder now, the drops hitting the ground like artillery.

Francis licked his lips clean, and said before walking away, "Well, you better not stay out here for too long. You don't want to catch another cold."

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><p>Oh England England England... Your temper... What to do?<p> 


	22. ,Old people are wise, but blind

Hey everyone, I am back with my new update. Thank you for all of the pleasant feedback since the last time we met. I hope you enjoyed the last two chapters. We are halfway done with the imperialist era, and the good stuff starts happening 2-3 updates from now. :)

I hope I don't get trolled this time. The insults don't do anything to me other than make me laugh. So, kudos.

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><p>A narrow creek ran across the canyon, like a single strand of hair. Beside it stood a tree, the only tree that could be found after a whole day of riding. Though it had withered years ago, it served well enough as a backrest.<p>

This was where Ivan and Yao had decided to spend the night.

Though there was a bustling village on the other side of the stream, Ivan knew he wasn't particularly good with meeting people. Besides, it had been a while since he and Yao got to be together, and he wasn't about to share most prized possession with anyone.

For the past hour or so, Ivan had been staring fondly at Yao, who was leaning his head against the tree, taking a nap.

Ivan sighed, and brushed a strand of hair away from Yao's face. He was always so flawless, as if he had descended from the skies with wings on his back.

A huff of northern wind blew across the lands, bristling the short bed of grass, as Yao shivered from the cold. Ivan quickly threw his jacket over his shoulders, and while he was leaning over, he decided to steal a kiss. Just a small one, so Yao wouldn't be mad, and the voices in Ivan's head would stop bothering him.

Yao opened his eyes immediately after Ivan pulled away. "Don't do that again," he whispered.

"Ah! Yao! You were awake this whole time?" Ivan shrieked. He quickly turned away and threw his scarf over his red-hot face.

Yao ignored him, and explained calmly, "Well, you learn to sleep lightly when you are on foreign lands, Ivan. Someone could come from behind and slash your neck."

"Not if I pound them into dust first, da?"

Yao raised an eyebrow Ivan's comment. When had he become so... openly violent?

"Um, right..." He said, petting Ivan's furry head approvingly. Ivan immediately cozied into his touch, happy to be getting some attention. If he had a tail, he'd be wagging it right now.

The stars were out tonight, beaming coldly upon the world. In the distance, mountains of unfathomable heights stabbed their peaks into the sky, their coats of ice and snow glittering under the moonlight. It was a sight to behold, and though their trip had been lengthy and tiresome, Yao believed it was worth it, for this exact reason.

Later, Ivan had become thirsty. So he dug out his water bottle, but not before shoving it under Yao's chin.

"Drink?" He asked, swishing the liquid inside.

Yao took the bottle and drank, thinking it was water. He winced and shuddered at the sour, and begrudgingly swallowed before handing it back to Ivan. Yao would never drink fermented horse milk on his own free will. It smelled like unwashed feet, which was just a little off-putting.

"It's good?"

While twirling his tongue to fight off the horrid aftertaste, Yao only managed to give a slow nod.

Content with the response, Ivan ventured to dump the last of the drink down his throat and tossed the bottle aside, as a thunderous burp echoed through the valley. Birds flew away, in fright.

Yao patted his tummy, and gently scolded, "Ivan, you know you shouldn't drink so much at once!"

Ivan stopped and placed his hand over Yao's, looking up at him incredulously.

_He was so pretty..._

Ivan shook his head, mentally fighting the urge to do something crazy in response to the funny feeling in his pants. He hated how when he was around Yao, he always got what felt like bladder infections. It was so embarrassing!

"Does Yao care about me?" He merped instead, as a late response.

Yao rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ivan, I care about you." He said for the zenith time.

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><p>There were times when Yao wondered whether Ivan was ever going to grow up. In recent years, he had heard of the tales the ambassadors told of the numerous wars his country had won. Russia had been wanting to expand to the two seas, and Yao was glad to hear about Ivan's success on the battlefield.<p>

The little boy, Yao would have never thought he had militant blood in him! How handsome he must have looked, all suited in armour with a sword strapped by his side... He probably could woo any girl he wanted. Maybe then, Ivan would finally stop serenading _him_ with gifts and cheesy love letters.

Yao frowned at the thought, and stubbornly shook his head. _No, he liked getting letters from Ivan very much, and if he were to ever get a girl, he better not forget about Yao!_

However, when it came to his _own_ land, well, Yao couldn't say that he was particularly... _pleased_. He liked Ivan, but not enough to want to hand over his territory.

At least all was good now. Their bosses had signed the treaty, and all possibilities of war between them had been annulled for the time being. Yao supposed it was for the best. He didn't want to think about the prospect of having to fight Ivan. Of course, Yao would protect his own country at all costs, despite having developed a fondness for the boy, but—

"Yao?"

"Yes?"

"Um, have you ever, you know," Ivan chuckled nervously, "...been to war before?"

"Of course I have," Yao said, surprised that he would ask such a thing. Ivan knew of his age, and surely he wouldn't have thought that Yao spent his whole life locked up in a palace!

Ivan bit his lip. "Was it... scary?"

Yao cocked his head back in disbelief.

"Wait, so you mean you've never...?"

"No!" Ivan cried, shaking his head vigorously, burying his face in his hands, "My crazy boss wants me to, but I don't want!" He sobbed dramatically, and occasionally peeked at Yao through his fingers to see if he looked convinced.

"Well, um, I was scared of it at first too, but you get used to it after a while..." Yao said, patting his sulking shoulders.

Yao was so sure that Ivan had become quite the warrior by now. But then again, Ivan was too sweet to hurt a fly.

"It is just that... When I see people die, I start getting tummy aches, because I hate seeing blood..."

Yao nodded in understanding. He really believed that Ivan still had a heart, while he didn't. Yao had been alive for too long, and had seen too many of his people's deaths that it didn't bother him anymore.

"I swear, I would never ever want to do anything to make you mad." Ivan continued, "But, my boss insisted on it, and no matter what I say, he was still determined!" He buried his face into Yao's chest, "You must think I am a terrible person, for having caused you so much trouble..."

Yao sat there, confused about what to do next. He wasn't particularly comfortable with comforting children, let alone a grown man.

"There there," Yao comforted awkwardly, and kissed his head, "It's alright, Ivan. I don't blame you."

Ivan grinned evilly. _Jackpot! _

"You promise?" he murmured as sweetly as he could, nudging closer against Yao's thin frame.

"I promise." Yao sighed.

It was Russia who had caused him trouble, not Ivan. But, Yao couldn't see what was so good about himself that made the boy so devoted, as flattered as he was by it.

Ivan wrote to him even more now, and found any excuse, _any_ stupid excuse to visit him. Yao welcomed him too, and enjoyed his presence. He loved sitting together with Ivan under the stars. There were no commitments, no tragedy. Just mutual understanding and silence.

But, it was a shame that Ivan probably wouldn't let them stay like this forever.

Relationships would always end, once they became too intimate too quickly. Both parties wanted something from the other that didn't even exist in the first place, and they would soon grow selfish and bitter.

If Ivan knew ofthe kind of person Yao really was, he probably wouldn't like him at all. There was a barrier that stood between them, and he wanted to respect that, no matter how thin and fragile that barrier really was.

So, Yao was glad that their bosses had signed the treaty.

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><p>Notes: The Treaty of Kyakhta was signed by the Russian Empire and the Qing Dynasty in 1729, which defined the border that is now Mongolia. This allowed the Qing to claim Mongolia and Xinjiang without interference. Yay, China had more land, Russia had an easier trade route, and everyone was happy.<p>

Yeah, I'm not too pleased with this chapter. I had written this a few months ago, and thought I had something golden. Then when I re-read it, I was like... Say wuuuuuuut? All this mofo'ing fluff?

So yeah, here's the end of my update. I hope you guys are happy! Please review!


	23. French Revolution: Flaxen

A/N:

Don't ask me why I waited so long to update... xD But, here it is! I'm also working on a new series, which is why this has been lagged for a bit.

OTL I have gone such a long stretch in this chapter regarding Fr and Uk's relationship. My original plan was that they weren't even going to kiss, let alone see each other naked. They were just going to be BFF's from the moment they meet (okay not EXACTLY from the moment they meet) until the end. xD

Oh well... I hope I don't offend any pro-USUK Rochu shippers here. This chapter also depicts a paradigm shift in their relationship, which I hope you keep a lookout for. Well, it technically happened during the last Fruk update, but it manifests itself more here. This chapter is on another of their pointless conversations and then, the French Revolution.

Also, just to warn you, this one may be a bit ideologically disturbing, mostly due to France's kind of character juxtaposed with sensitive subject matter. Your discretion is advised, and the flames box is always open.

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><p>"And you thought <em>I<em> needed to bathe?" France murmured into England's bare sweaty chest, his tongue grazing the salt on his skin.

"Well, I don't think so anymore, if that is any consolation." England grumbled, his chapped lips scratching against the crown of France's head. His hair was damp, musty, and not to mention, a little frizzy.

"Why not?"

Not bothering to answer, England gave a long sigh. As his ribcage fell, so did France.

He looked out the window— It was a warm, mild, rather charming afternoon. The curtains were left wide open, pouring sunlight into the bedroom. England entertained the thought of shoving France against the glass where the whole world could see, and do another round with him there.

But, he found a more creative way to irk him.

Reaching to the side of France's neck, he lightly pulled loose the blue ribbon around his hair and tossed it aside. England clawed the single braid apart, splaying golden hair across his shoulders. France stayed silent and didn't resist, patiently waiting for the other to verbally justify such an action.

England pursed his lips uncomfortably. Ill feelings were rutting his ribcage.

England ran a hand down France's scalp, his hair felt soft as air. But, it was a little too long for a man's mane, nor should it be gleaming in the sunlight.

England didn't like what he saw. Not one bit.

"Cut your hair, Francis." He muttered.

France tilted his head up and blinked perplexedly. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I don't like being reminded that I am in bed with a woman. You know that very notion makes me cringe."

"What, don't you don't think I'm handsome?" France asked, a little hurt.

England blinked twice. "No," he lied, lazily flicking away a fly that had landed upon France's back.

France chuckled, unconvinced. "Why is that?"

"Because..." He paused, and looked up at the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, in search for the rest of his answer.

Having thought of a comeback, he said, comically imitating the dark and brooding air of a German scholar, "_Because, _beauty is only deemed as such when the voyeur associates it with a previous evocation that had already been crowned the same title..."

After his grand soliloquy, England was met with silence.

France seriously wondered whether he was being sarcastic, and hoped to God he was.

A few seconds later, France let out a nervous giggle. "And what do you 'associate' yourself with, England?" He asked, sticking out his tongue at him, "Bad tea and even worse literature?"

England rolled his eyes at the slight defeat. "Oh, what is the point of reasoning with you, Francis, when reason itself is only the slave of our passions?"

France facepalmed on the inside, but grinned outwardly.

Though little England deserved applause for his ambition, France thought it was so cute how he would pretend to be a deep thinker, but was actually as transparent as a glass of water. Deciding not to call him out on his inappropriate allusion to Hume, he asked boredly, "So, tell me, what are your so-called '_passions_' telling you to do right now?"

England raised one of the caterpillars on his forehead evilly. "To not fuck you again, until you cut your hair~" He sang, and grinned at his little victory.

France moued girlishly. "Oh _Arthur_, you are so cruel to me!" he whined, pounding his fists against the other's chest, "What in the heavens is wrong with my beautiful hair that you must damn it to hell?"

England shrugged. "It's too long." He muttered, his one hand working to comb out the stubborn knots.

Without warning, he grabbed a handful in his fist and twisted it around France's neck. France gasped in surprise, and held his breath—

"—_And_," England leaned over and whispered into his ear, his hot, moist breath licking his skin, "It reminds me too much of lynching rope..."

France made a face at the comment. He wondered what had made England so awfully morbid today. "You do not want to kill me, Arthur." France said smartly, despite the growing discomfort, "If I died, who would cook for you on Sundays?"

He looked into England's acid green eyes and gave a stiff smirk, before being smothered by the other man's lips crashing into his.

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><p>A sea of shouts and gunfire drowned the streets of Paris, making the windows of Francis' bedroom rattle.<p>

"_Vive la république!"_

Francis was a little annoyed that the noise outside was ruining his spa day.

He coughed a little— He had a bit of a cold, must be the weather.

"Marie, darling~" He sang, waving to his maid who was standing by the doorway. She had a pretty face and a delicate figure, and couldn't be over the age of seventeen. The girl walked to the vanity desk where Francis was sitting.

"You called, sir?" She groveled, as a pair of ample breasts poured forth. Yes, that was why he kept her around, plus that she was quite nimble with her hands.

With a deafening boom followed by the clattering of broken glass, the cathedral down yonder fell to its knees. Francis ignored it, and kindly asked her, "Stand behind me, if you please?"

She obeyed, but from his mirror, Francis could see that sweat was beginning to trickle down her temples.

"_Vive la France!"_

The girl's father was supposedly a star figure among the rebels, and by the sounds of those cannons, he had probably met his demise already.

Francis looked into his mirror, and gave his reflection a serene smile. The shade lamp emanated a lukewarm light, which gave his skin a gentle, caramel glow. It made the blemishes on his face a little harder to see, and not to mention, that little scar along his jawline from when Arthur was testing out his new dagger. On the desk was a bouquet of lilies in a glass vase, as well as a music box that Francis had flipped open, which was tinkling the tune of Brahm's lullaby. To the right sat a pair of scissors, which France poised his hand and gripped, and handed it to his maid.

"Cut my hair." Francis ordered politely.

"But sir, I don't think—" The girl whispered.

"Please do as you are told, Marie." Francis pressed on, though not tossing away the mildness in his tone.

"Y-yes sir." She said, taking the scissors with her petite hands.

For a few brief seconds, all was silent except for Marie's snipping, as well as the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock standing by the window.

"_Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort!_"

She stopped.

"What are you waiting for, darling?" Francis asked, finding it harder to mask his impatience. He began tapping his nails against the desk's lacquered surface.

Another thunderous rumble had taunted Marie to take a peek outside, but she found that the window was shielded by a bath of crimson curtains. "Um," she sputtered, "It is just that... do forgive me... but don't you think we should leave this for another day?"

Francis spoke, his voice suddenly deepening, "Marie, I hope you take in account of the amount of money I am paying you just to remain here, safe, with me." He turned his head to the door and back at her, "Though, if you insist on leaving, very well. I give you that freedom."

"_Off with his head!"_

Marie bit her lip. "Yes, I'll stay," she finally said.

"Good. Now, where were we?"

After it was done, Marie cleaned up, bowed, and took her leave, and he was left alone in his bedroom. Francis' hair had been reduced to a shoulder length, and in a way, he felt that a weight had finally lifted from his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, it came— a twisting, stabbing pain gnawing inside ribcage. He fell onto his desk, heaving, his hand clutching his chest. It felt like he was repeatedly being impaled by a molten blade, without mercy nor regret. Francis gasped and fell to the floor, his body rolled into the corner of his room, beside his bookshelf.

Despite his clenched face, Francis' lips managed a smirk.

These were normal, natural symptoms he was experiencing. The streets of Paris were burning, and people were screaming in agony. If he wasn't in pain as well, he would be deemd heartless.

His hand reached into his coat pocket and produced a heart-shaped diamond pendant. It was large, roughly half of the size of his palm, and possessed a faint blue glare. The diamond seemed to had cracked in two, with the other half sliding off onto the carpet. France managed to pick it up, and held it up in front his eye.

Another stab of pain had caused him to drop it, as he jerked and writhed. Sweat dripped down his face, soaking his new haircut.

But for as long as Francis had been hurting, he could only think of Arthur.

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

- Made vain, vague allusions to Kantian aesthetics, and Hume.

- The French Revolution (1789-1799) was a period of radical political change in France. It impacted the rest of Europe greatly, and even today, it is considered to be an iconic historical moment, one that is fondly remembered by left-wing political savvies as the pioneering event of liberalism. Fueled by the Enlightenment's "Yes we can!" attitude.

- The Hope Diamond fell in possession of of Louis XVI. After his death, it was stolen, and eventually fell in the hands of King George IV of the UK. It was cut, somewhere along the way.


	24. Monsoon

Holy Rome in my story _is_ little Germany. :D

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><p>There wasn't anything about formal settings that made Hungary comfortable at all.<p>

She was scared of misusing her silverwhere, shattering delicate china, and tripping over the elegant furniture that stood around the ballroom like a complicated maze. Also, her dress was very hard on her waistline, especially after stuffing her face at the banquet, much to Austria's concern. She felt light-headed since she couldn't take deep breaths, lest the seams on her bust rip open, resulting in wardrobe malfunction number twenty.

Yes, she kept track of them. Formal settings often made her nervous, and nervousness preludes paranoia, and hence, the numbers in her head.

Releasing a careful, well-executed sigh, she turned to Austria, who seemed to be faring a lot better than she was. He had the patience to take small, thoughtful sips from his glass of wine, instead of letting all of it crash into mouth at once. He seemed to be in good spirits too, walking around and talking to all the other guests. He was feeling better now than he had been for the past few months. For that, she was glad.

"Miss Hungary, what a pleasant surprise!" A smiling lady with a poofy blue dress and large wig appeared in front of her. Hungary recognized her as Austria's new boss. She strutted over to them, batting her fan as quickly as she was batting her eyelashes.

Austria's face fell slightly upon seeing her.

She gently took Hungary's hands into her gloved ones. "Pardon my intrusiveness," She said, in a surprisingly humble tone, "But," she paused and licked her lips before continuing, "Words cannot hope to express my gratitude to you, for having saved us all."

Hungary bowed her head politely, " It was my honour to have been at your service, your highness." She was surprised that a woman of her stature had just spoken to _her_ in such a manner.

Austria looked to and fro at the two women, before saying curtly, " I shall get some drinks for you ladies." He turned and strode towards the catering tables, but not before placing a hand gently on Hungary's shoulder.

Grinning mischievously at Hungary, her highness leaned over and swung her fan over their faces, covering them. She scrunched her face into an ungraceful scowl, and flipped her middle finger at Austria when no one was watching, at which Hungary let out a barking laugh. She covered her mouth quickly and apologized, her face turning red.

Her highness shrugged coolly. "Don't mind him though, he spends too much time with his nose up the air to notice how many people are actually mocking him behind his back." She said, perking up a perfectly-drawn eyebrow.

Hungary chuckled politely at her comment. She decided that she liked this woman, and what she had said about Austria was, well, quite true.

"But, I digress," Austria's boss continued, "He is a good man, when he isn't trying to strangle himself with sophistication. And you are quite the lady yourself, aren't you?"

"Well, thank you!" Hungary replied kindly. She was getting a feeling of where this conversation was headed.

"To tell you the truth, I have always looked up to you." Her eyes were glowing in adoration. "A little bird had once told me that there was a fierce female warrior from the eastern lands, who had leveled forests and tamed seas..." She clapped her hands together excitedly, "Oh, and to think only _men_ belonged on the battlefield... You, Miss Hungary, are a hero!"

Hungary swatted her hand dismissively, blushing a little. "I'm not sure about that..."

Hungary didn't know what else to say back. It was not often that she was being gloated upon. She had never taken compliments well to begin with, even if it was only Gil telling her that he liked her new shirt or something.

She grinned at her stiffly, looked around in anticipation, and fiddled with a stubborn knot in her dress. As silence befell them, she began wondering what was taking Austria so long.

However, there was one little creeping thought that never ceased bug her, ever since her return from the battlefield.

Yes, they may have crowned her the country's hero, and even the empress glorified her. But, she knew that the reason why Gil invaded in the first place was because of her. These past few days, she had often asked herself how it felt to be the sole reason behind the country's political strife, destruction, and not to mention, thousands of lives lost.

All these sacrifices, made upon the altar of her selfish love.

And, it shocked and disgusted her, the fact that she was able to live with herself, after being the bait to all these atrocities. What made it even worse was that, a part of her still secretly— ever so secretly— hoped that Prussia would invade again, no matter how much she hated herself for it.

Hungary didn't need praise for having won the war, as she had fought to save herself. What she needed instead, was someone else who could save her, from herself.

"Are you alright, Elizaveta?"

"Yes, Roderich, I am fine," she said slowly, as if to convince herself as well.

He took out his hand. "Would you like to dance?"

"But, I don't know how." She answered, but placed her own hand in his anyways. She could use a distraction.

"I'll teach you," he said, as he extended a few fingertips to gently graze her cheek. Austria frowned at how quickly she shied away from his touch.

He led her into the centre of the ballroom, directly under the sparkling chandelier. Hungary was becoming worried about how precariously the pretty, though heavy-looking object was dangling from the ceiling, but no more than the fact that Austria now had an arm wrapped firmly around her waist, her fingers intertwining with his gloved ones. They were getting too close for her liking, and Hungary tried her hardest to lighten up her every step so she wouldn't trip on his feet.

She eventually did latch onto the relatively uncomplicated choreography, and relaxed. She had never truly understood the enjoyment one was supposed to get from ballroom dancing. The whole experience had been somewhat uncomfortable, which was perhaps due to Hungary trying to convince herself, despite the unconditional tenderness with which Austria had treated her, that she still liked him as a friend. His eyes, the pools of deep indigo, held such love and grace that Hungary almost smacked herself for not having noticed sooner. It was as if they were persuading her to stare into them, forever.

Prussia's eyes, though cold on the outside, had unadulterated, lava-like passion brewing beneath the exterior. He held a borderline maniacal, though he always seemed to reserve a soft glow for Hungary only.

She had always liked them, adored them, but she figured she could get used to Austria's too. She had to. Because...

She probably was going to be staring into them for a while.

Austria tried again to cup Hungary's face, even more gently than the last. This time, Hungary gave in. She closed her eyes as she surrendered to his touch, placing her own palm over his. _To save everyone, to save myself_, she chanted in her head.

He brought her closer, burying her head into the breast of his coat. "I have long wished to tell you something," Austria murmured, his lips tickling the shell of her ear, "I love you, Elizaveta."

This was the best way, the only way, in fact, to keep any more blood from being shed, to keep Austria from suffering, and perhaps to achieve a small measure of peace on the inside for herself.

Austria pulled them closer until his lips were only a minute breadth from brushing, or, if he had failed to subdue his inhibitions, completely devouring, hers. Rising on her tiptoes, Hungary closed the gap, but only briefly— a small, but meaningful kiss.

"Will you please love me?" Austria asked, only seconds after Hungary's heels hit the ground.

"Um..."

She never thought that it would come to this, that the sniffling little boy she had known from her childhood would be the person he was today, and be who he was to her. Though Hungary chose not to believe in such cliched and pointless things as fate, she could not find a more viable explanation for all that had happened.

"I want you to think about it," Austria said after moments of silence, "But, no matter what, my feelings for you will never change.."

But for Hungary, _accepting_ the fate that had been cast upon her, was another issue.

* * *

><p>It wasn't that Hungary completely fell out of love with the man sitting next to her right now.<p>

He was Prussia, her Gil, the person on whom she had had a crush for as long as she could remember. Yes, she liked him even back when he was the biggest jerk in the whole universe.

"Liz, stop being such a bummer," Prussia whined, shaking her shoulders, " If you don't want to sleep with me, then let's go for a walk or something..." He seemed completely oblivious to the annoyed expression etched in her face.

Hungary turned away from him, not wanting to deal with this moron right now. After all these years, was Prussia still so self-centred to not see that she was upset?

Prussia, of course, knew she was upset, but decided that cheering her up with mischief was a lot more fun than sitting down and listening to all of her womanly troubles. Perhaps, if he kept avoiding the issues that stood between them, they would just magically go away.

Grinning devilishly, Prussia went on to say, "You know, maybe this is why I am the only lover you have _ever_ had! No one wants a serious, grouchy, bitchy cun-..." He was silenced with a harsh kiss, and yelped loudly when Hungary bit his tongue.

"Watch your mouth..." Hungary murmured, as she licked the blood off his lips, " Or I'll kick you out of my house and leave you to freeze in the snow..."

She loved how well she knew Prussia, everything about him. The man who instilled fear among even the most valiant warriors in all of Europe could be brought down to his knees in front of her.

But nevertheless, she knew just how dangerous he could be. Underneath that handsome, boyish charm laid a ruthless killer whose reign of terror had afflicted her lands once, and was still waiting for the perfect moment to strike again.

She kissed him once more, softer this time.

It wasn't like Prussia to give up on his plans either. She could sense it— he was still hungry for war, and she wouldn't always be able to protect Austria from harm.

She fell into his embrace.

_There was only one thing she could do_, she thought, burying her face even deeper into his chest, letting the scent of sweat and blood fill her nostrils again.

She must cut off all ties with him.

"That's right, jump through the hoop and come into my arms, little Lizzie." Prussia teased, ruffling her head playfully, " Big bad Gil won't hurt you..."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up and fuck me, you asshole."

At least for tonight, she could enjoy herself, for the last time. Their noses brushed lovingly and their fingers intertwined. Only for tonight, their common enemy was the sun.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

A gust of wind blew across the field, lightly ruffling the untrimmed grass, and, only for a second, lifted the drooping willow branches from depression. A baby bird spread its shy, young wings and took its first flight, trusting that the lilting wind would save it from a hard fall. The water in the brook sparkled under the afternoon sun, which looked like it was soon to be enshrouded by gray clouds looming in the wake.

Though no matter what, with time, the sunlight would fade, water would vapourize, grass would wilt, and, young love, no matter how sweet and dear it had been, would eventually come to an end.

However, Italy was thankful that Mr. Austria give him the day off, so he could at least be with Holy Rome for a few more hours before he had to leave for good.

Italy didn't know exactly why his love must leave. He had said it was because he must go to war. But Italy didn't understand— Why did he want to leave him? He worked so hard on housekeeping, to make the mansion a comfy place to live, so why didn't Holy Rome want to stay here, with him?

They stood in front of each other, by the gates. Holy Rome's army general waited impatiently for them with his arms crossed, tapping his feet occasionally to show discontent.

"You'll remember to change your clothes and wash your hair every day, right?"

Holy Rome nodded unenthusiastically, rolling his eyes, "Yes Italy, I won't forget..."

"Oh! A-And remember to wash behind your ears every once in awhile. You know you would _always_ f-forget when I am not here to r-remind you!" Italy squeaked earnestly, through a clenched throat and teary eyes.

Holy Rome pulled him into a hug, as Italy began sobbing wildly into his shoulder. "I'll come back for you, someday." He said, "I promise. Wait for me."

Italy clutched Holy Rome with all the strength he could muster, in childish hopes that it would somehow stop him from going. For the past few nights, he had been praying, in front of the large balcony window, under the multitude of stars in the sky, that Holy Rome wouldn't leave. But, even as a child, he knew that it was to no avail. Though it didn't stop him from trying.

"Miss Hungary will take good care of you when I'm gone," he lulled, lightly patting Italy's messy head, " And you will grow up to be a strong, powerful country, even if I won't be there to see it."

Holy Rome could hear little droplets of September rain begin to tap on the paved stone ground, over Italy's soft sobs.

"You know what? I'll _will_ wait for you, Holy Rome," Italy said finally, looking up to him, his eyes brimming with determination, "Even if it takes a hundred years, a thousand years, I'll wait for you!"

Holy Rome smiled, nodding. "That's my Italy!"

"But I'll miss you, though..."

"I know, I'll miss you too..." He brought his head back into his chest.

Holy Rome only said what he said, only because he didn't want Italy to be sad. To be honest, he didn't know whether he was going to come back or not. He supposed that he _should_ stay optimistic about them winning the war, but the chances were slim. Sighing, Holy Rome just hoped that Italy wouldn't be too hard on himself, were he to not come back.

Italy was still young. He'd forget about him, and find love again elsewhere. Maybe, he'd find someone who wouldn't be so heartless to leave him, like he was.

"Italy, I have to go..." Holy Rome whispered finally, embarrassed upon seeing that his whole army was watching them now.

"Okay," Italy sniffled into his handkerchief, "J-Just remember to change your underwear every day..."

"Yes I will."

"And eat your vegetables..." Italy added, blowing his nose.

Holy Rome nodded. He bent down to capture his lips into one last kiss. Short, but sweet, like the first one they had. "You take good care of yourself," Holy Rome told him, after breaking apart.

"You too..." Italy whimpered, as he straightened Holy Rome's hat and fixed his collar. "You win that war for me, okay?"

Holy Rome gave him a proud smile, and began to take his first steps away from his lover.

Italy wanted to chase after him. Just drop his broom onto the floor, quit his dirty job, and just follow his Holy Rome to the ends of the Earth. He had been so kind to him for all these years, and gave him butterflies in his stomach, and made his heart hop like a bunny, just from looking into his pretty, pretty eyes... Now that he was leaving, who would hold and kiss him when he was sad?

Italy sighed. He was afraid that Holy Rome would just fade into another sweet memory in his head, a memory of a boy he had loved during warm summers, under the bright sun and blue sky.

Heck, he didn't even know his real name...

"Holy Rome!" Italy sputtered out, running after him as quickly as his little legs could.

He stopped and turned to Italy, who was huffing and puffing his heart out. "What is it?" He asked, becoming a little annoyed now.

"Um, I just forgot to ask you something..." Italy chirped nervously, "What is your real name? Mine is Feliciano, by the way."

Holy Rome giggled. "Yes, I guess that is kind of important, isn't it?" He scratched his head apologetically. "It's Ludwig," he said. He gave Feliciano a deep bow, before turning his heel and leaving for good.

"Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig..." Feliciano muttered to himself, thinking that it was a really cute name for him. He would tell Ludwig that the next time they met.


	25. Adam and Eve

-cries- Writing this chapter broke my heart. xD

-.- I don't know why I always make PruHunAus chapters so freaking long... I doubt anyone reads them anyways, lool.

* * *

><p>The recurring wet dream Elizaveta had been having for the past few nights was finally realized. Small butterfly kisses crept down her cheek, neck, and shoulders. Eventually, a sharp tongue, both in texture and speech, tickled the ugly scar that ran along her back.<p>

It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and Gilbert and Elizaveta were sitting on the lawn in the outskirts of Holy Rome's property. Their clothes laid aside in a pile, with a bulwark of tulips granting them modesty. Elizaveta took a deep breath, and rested her back against Gilbert's chest.

Kudos to their _attempt_ at reviving the paradise they had abandoned and burnt, so long ago. But, this was just a cruel mockery of it. Gilbert grasped a round red apple that fell from a tree and coincidentally rolled beside them. He held it to the other's lips, urging her to take a bite, which she did, reluctantly.

"How does it taste?"

"Like an apple."

Elizaveta regretted how she had let Gilbert to walk around in the mansion in broad daylight and accidentally scaring little Italy. Not to mention, they were now laying nude under the sun, basking in the afterglow of the sex they just had.

Not much progress had been made so far. But, she knew what must be done today, if only should could muster up the mental strength to do it.

Elizaveta had spent many tear-filled days and sleepless nights, trying to gather the right words to say to Gilbert the next time they met. For weeks, she had been rehearsing in front of her mirror, putting words together and taking them apart, so that when the time did come, she could say it clearly without slipping, or breaking into tears.

Hungary was rather quiet today, and it was starting to worry Prussia. She didn't stop him, and instead closed her eyes in acceptance as he did what must be done. But, she didn't seem to enjoy it as much as he had expected her to. Prussia frowned; he wondered what had gotten into her today. Her lips stayed shut until he physically pried them open with his tongue. Her body laid still like a corpse when he rammed into her, and almost made Prussia feel like a rapist.

Prussia chuckled into her ear, "What's gotten into you today, Liz?"

He turned her shoulders to make her face him. But, her answer to his question was still silence.

Prussia bent down and captured her lips into a kiss, and another, and another. But soon, he gave up because it felt as if he was kissing thin air. He sighed, and pressed their foreheads together. In conviction, he took her hands, which were as cold as ice.

Hungary closed her eyes— How she wished this moment would last forever... She leaned her lips closer to his. Prussia stared wide-eyed, surprised that she was finally responding. But, she broke apart just as quickly.

"We can't be together anymore, Gilbert." Those words slipped out on their own, so naturally, smoothly, casually.

_I'm sorry, Gil. So, so, so sorry... _

Her heart was breaking, but she never let it show. She had already played pretend for this long, and just a little more wouldn't hurt that much.

_I will never love another person, Gil. I promise. _

Prussia stumbled back, his bottom slammed onto the grass. "W-what the fuck did you say, Liz?" He stuttered, his eyes mirroring utter shock.

"I don't love you anymore," she barely whispered again.

Prussia, for a few seconds, stood frozen like a statue, as the words, those poisonous words etched into his consciousness. It took even longer for his mind to truly fathom them, and to muster a response.

"You are lying." Prussia stated dully.

Hungary flinched _Yes. Yes I am... _How she hated that he could read her like a book!

Pursing her lips, she stayed silent.

A few agonizing seconds had passed until she heard Prussia's voice again.

"_You can't not love me!_" He cried, grabbing her shoulders and shaking them. Hungary squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shield herself as his gaze, like molten daggers, stabbed into her. "After all I have done for you, after all we have been through! _You can't not love me, Liz!_"

Hungary bit her lip, as Prussia screamed at her, throwing bloody curse after bloody curse. She knew that he didn't mean what he said. But, she knew that she deserved every name he called.

"Liz..." Suddenly, Prussia's voice had become achingly soft. "Liz, I didn't care that you moved in with Roddy, nor that you couldn't bring yourself to rely on me for help." For the first time, Hungary saw that Prussia was crying. Hot tears, one by one, dripped down his chin and onto the back of her palm. "I was fine with seeing you only every once in awhile, as long as I knew that you loved me... And yet—"

He buried his face into his hands and jerked his away from her. Prussia would die before letting Hungary see him like this. All Hungary could hear were racking, choking sobs.

"What have I done wrong to deserve this, Liz? I loved you... _Loved you!_"

Voices in her head were screaming for her to scoop him into her arms, and desperately mutter all of the apologies that she had forced to be left unsaid. But, as the heartless woman that Elizaveta was, she stayed silent. Though, she could not for the life of her, keep the single tear from running down her otherwise blank face.

When the voices became too much, she decided to give in. She was just about to lean over to Prussia's crouching nude figure, when a new voice cut in—

"Seize him."

Hungary turned and saw Austria standing behind them, his face looked calm and collected as ever. He stood as still as a tree, and his eyes held an unreadable, eerily blank gaze. Hungary shrieked and arbitrarily grabbed an article of clothing from the pile, which just so happened to be Prussia's jacket. She was preoccupied with keeping her breasts covered that she almost did not notice that two guards had launched themselves at Prussia.

Of course the two men captured him effortlessly; Prussia was naked, unarmed, and distraught.

"Get off me!" Prussia growled, his limbs thrashing against forces that were obviously beyond his physical capacity.

One of the men stomped kicked him in the back, making his face hit the ground. The other twisted his arms back, as Prussia howled in pain.. Austria smirked, and strolled in front of him.

"Thank you for your trouble," Austria said serenely to the guards, "Now please lead dear Gilbert back inside, and show him our utmost hospitality."

His gaze descended upon Prussia. "We shall have tea later?" Austria asked politely, giving him a deep bow.

"You bastard!" Prussia managed to hiss, before being taken away.

Austria watched as the guards wrestled with the man on their way back to the mansion, and waited until the door had been slammed shut before turning to Hungary.

Under Austria's gaze, she had never felt more naked in her life. She whimpered and wrapped Prussia's coat around her body even tighter. Bite marks littered every inch of her body, and she knew she reeked of his essence.

She gathered enough courage to barely stutter, "R-Roderich, I-I can explain..."

"There's no need, Elizaveta." Austria replied curtly. "Come, let's get you inside. You must be freezing."

He held out his hand which she took, and they walked back into the mansion in silence.

* * *

><p>Roderich slid steaming cup of tea across the coffee table. Instead of taking her drink, Elizaveta stared at the floorboards, like she had been for the past half hour. For Roderich, it had been too long. Taking the initiative, he shuffled to her side.<p>

Putting his hands on her lap, and in a soft, comforting hush, he asked, "How are you feeling, Elizaveta?"

She looked at him. "I'm fine, Roddy. Thank you." She mouthed.

He gave her a smile. "I'm glad."

He counted the seconds when she would surely collapse onto his shoulder and cry, but it never came.

Instead, he proceeded to say, but not before slowly cupping her slightly wet cheek, "Elizaveta..." He paused briefly, mimicking a hurt voice, "_Liz_... I have done nothing but love you with all my heart. Why did you do this to me?"

"R-Roddy I-"

"Liz," Roderich repeated, allowing his voice to crack a little. He took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her, "I have done nothing but help and take care of you. I would do anything for you... And..."

He continued to look down, waiting patiently for Elizaveta to tip his chin up and give him a kiss. Despite his disgust in having Gilbert's essence slathered into his mouth, Roderich kissed back.

He broke them apart after a while. Swallowing unpleasantly, Roderich proceeded to ask Elizaveta, but not before taking her hands into his, "Liz, what do I mean to you? Do I mean anything at all?"

"You mean everything to me."

Despite her hollow tone, Roderich was satisfied with the answer.

He bent down on one knee in front of her, and took out a small box which he flipped it open, revealing the diamond ring he had gotten weeks ago.

He cleared his throat. "In that case, Elizaveta Hévédary," he said "will you marry me?"

It took shorter than he expected for her to break down in tears and fall into his arms, knocking the little box right out of his hand. "Yes, I will marry you, Roderich." She sobbed, burying her face into his chest. Austria wasn't sure, but he would _like_ to believe that the tears she was crying were of joy.

* * *

><p>Elizaveta was peacefully asleep, curled up on the couch. Roderich thought she looked like a kitten or a doll, so peaceful, so fragile.<p>

He slid off his own coat and carefully draped it over her shoulders. Wasting no time, he kissed his fiance's forehead, and left her alone in the living room.

Cracking open the door to her bedroom, Roderich took a peek before walking in. He had already told Feliciano to clean Miss Hungary's room later in the evening, and to do some gardening instead. But, he had to make sure.

Content with the room's unoccupancy, he opened the door fully, strode inside, and clicked it shut.

He looked around, and facepalmed. Her dresses were scattered across the bed, her jewelry box had been fumbled open, and there were trinkets cluttered all over her vanity table. Roderich wondered what kept Elizaveta from keeping her own room clean, when she spent so much effort providing sanitary services to the rest of the mansion. Roderich shook his head disapprovingly. No matter, he was only here to borrow _one_ item, and knew exactly where it was.

He walked over to her closet and opened it, exposing himself to an onslaught of dust. Lightly coughing into his sleeve, and brushing a moth away from his shoulder, Roderich ventured onwards. He pulled aside the dresses hanging from the bar, all of which were his gifts to her, and reached for the leather chest in the corner. He opened it, took the object he was looking for, and grinned to himself. He headed for the exit, shut the door behind him, and made his way downstairs to the cellar. He was planning to set Prussia free, but not before a little heart-to-heart talk between two men.

Austria usually avoided coming here. Moss lined the rim of the cavern, and the water dripped from stalactites and onto ground with the noise akin to a broken metronome.

He walked to Prussia's cell and unlocked the gates. Prussia's head lifted up immediately upon hearing the jingling of keys, and scowled when he saw Austria stepping into the dingy, stale-scented room.

He gave the chains around his wrists one last hopeless tug, hoping to free himself from the wall so he could face his enemy, standing.

"What do you want now?" He growled.

"To pay you a visit, of course." Roderich replied pleasantly, "And, to make sure that our accommodations are to the guests' liking."

"You're so full of shit, Roddy." Prussia scoffed, spitting on the floor.

"Also, to give you this." Austria gently took something from his coat pocket and tossed it in front of him.

It was a standard-sized envelope, inside of which contained an invitation that Austria had handwritten days ago. Two signatories were engraved in gold, and it was sealed with a violet bow tie.

Prussia's eyes narrowed in shock, or perhaps fear. Austria stood still and waited patiently for him to muster up a response. Finally he said, in a quiet, shaking hush, "Y-You fiend..."

Austria raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders. "I can give her everything she wants, and you, nothing."

Prussia shook his head. "No," he replied, finally looking up at him, "You _use_ her, Roddy. You use Liz to be your cleaning wench because you don't want to get your own hands dirty. You use her as some pretty thing you can take to your parties to show off. Hell, if she wasn't there to stand up for you, your whole country would have been mine now!"

Dismissing the slight sting from Prussia's words, Austria gathered his composure, and was about to utter his reply, but was interrupted—

"Prove it!" Prussia snarled, "Prove to me that you did not use some form of black magic to seduce her into your dirty lap!"

"Very well." Austria replied, smirking politely. Moving onto his second task, he took out the object that he had fished from Hungary's room, a sword, and threw it down to the ground. It landed on top of the wedding invitation. "Elizaveta handed this to me after the war. Surely, you wouldn't need me to explain to you what this signifies, Gilbert?"

Prussia dropped to his knees and stared, mouth agape, eyes opened wide, at what had been presented in front of him. It was Hungary's sword, one of the two they had on one of their treasure hunts as children, and had been with her ever since. Prussia wielded the matching twin, for a knight and dame.

He couldn't help but begin giggling humourlessly.

"What could possibly be funny?" Austria challenged, fear beginning to write on his face.

"Very well, Roddy. You win." He muttered, shaking his head.

"Why yes, I am glad we have settled that. But, pray do answer my previous question."

Choking back another onslaught of laughter, Prussia continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "After the dozens of times I had fucked her right on your property, I still couldn't taste the _greed_ between her legs. Don't you find that funny, Roddy?"

* * *

><p>Give Prussia an Internet hug? D:<p> 


	26. ,Exoskeleton

I am tired of writing Rochu fluff. -.- So much fluff. -.- Beginning to think that their relationship is perfect, which it is not. -.-

As we are nearing the end of the imperialist era, there will be a final "showdown." There will be more consecutive chapters about Ivan and Yao, so I wouldn't have to update soo many chapters at once. The countries will meet each other. Europe will meet Asia, when the time comes. xD

Hope you enjoy this. I have browsed through many fanworks in which Ivan goes for a cultural exchange in China. But, I have rarely seen it the other way around. So, this is my two cents in the pot.

Note: Yes, of course Ivan has a magical carriage that can take them from Beijing to St. Petersburg in no time... Kolkolkol...

* * *

><p>The sun beamed down upon the pond, donning an astral glow to the clear turquoise waters. It had stopped raining hours ago, and pearls of sparkling dew still rested upon the lotus leaves. Holding his parasol with one hand, Yao extended the fingertips of another to caress a particularly large leaf. Its undulating edges were akin to a frilly dress of a Western woman, and in the centre formed a nice, round bowl. He tipped it, and a stream of water ran down his wrist. He shuddered from the cool touch, and let the liquid flow down elbow.<p>

Yao remembered when the emperor forced his maids to wake up every day before the sun rose to collect the dewdrops for his morning tea. He said that it improved vitality, while Yao could only scoff at his superstition. What a fool— If there was miasma in the air, surely he would be willing to drink that as well?

No matter. Today, Yao decided that his boss was going to be the last person to cross his mind.

Where he was standing now was where Ivan had told Yao to wait for him, and the boy had promised that he was going to take him someplace "special". Of course, Yao had little faith in his words. But, any ordinary walk in the forest with Ivan was much preferred over sitting in front of his work desk.

A dragonfly flittered to and fro, and finally found roost upon the tip of his finger. Yao froze and stared down at the creature, amused.

If he wanted to, he could squash it in a second, and reduce its pretty red coat to dust.

_Like this..._

"I'm here, Yao." Ivan plucked the parasol from his hands and dropped it to the ground with a plop.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Yao quickly patted off the crumpled insect skeleton from his hands, as Ivan's arms assaulted him. His arms felt stronger than they did the last time, and Yao had a feeling that the next time they met, he may share the same fate as that dragonfly.

"So Ivan," Yao managed to say, despite being the twig pressed against Ivan's body, "You didn't mention in the letter where we're going today..."

Ivan hummed thoughtfully; Yao could hear his thick voice rumbling against his ribcage.

"Hehe..." Ivan chuckled at his mind going blank. He had thought his courting skills were as smooth as glass, when he was back home practicing them with his manservant, Toris.

"Well...?" Yao pressed on. He turned around to face Ivan, who couldn't help but think that his beloved Yao had somehow grown shorter over the years. He was so tall back when Ivan was a child, and now, Ivan could probably scoop him up with one arm, like a doll. How cute!

"Oh, we are going to my house!" Ivan blurted out, though he had meant it to be a surprise.

"Y-your house? Up north?" Yao's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He had heard, from the stories of wayfarers, of the kinds of horrors that haunted the northern lands.

"Of course!" Ivan replied, grinning proudly, "The prettiest person in the world only visits the prettiest place in the world!"

"Ivan, I don't think it is a good idea..."

If Yao had known sooner, he would have brought his hunting gear, some food, and he would be in the right attire!

"Well, _I_ think it is a great idea," Ivan replied, in a frustratingly mild air. He lifted a punching and kicking Yao with one arm, and carried him to the carriage that had been waiting for them. "Yao, you stay inside too often. You need to get out there and see the world, da?"

"Yes, but I..."

Ivan set him down upon the velvet seat gently and gave his forehead a kiss, like a baby in a crib.

"If anyone dares to hurt you, or take you away from me, I'll just snap their neck, like this!" He giggled, and crushed a handful of air with his hand. For some reason, Yao felt lucky that his own neck was not clenched between those those thick, jaw-like fingers.

So, despite Yao's polite reluctance, they set off into the warm winds of spring. As they rode, Yao would try to focus his attention on the passing scenery outside, the mountains, forests, and quiet villages.

It made him feel proud that Ivan had grown big and strong, and even taller than the last time Yao saw him. Yao leaned over and patted a bit of dust, along with a speck of this morning's breakfast, from his handsome army jacket. He reached across his front to straighten Ivan's collar, but not before noticing the numerous golden badges decorating his chest. Yao chuckled at the sight- so much for being scared of war, like what he said last time.

"You know, Yao," Ivan said wistfully after a while, almost to himself, "I find myself thinking about you all the time."

Yao said nothing, but found a resting place for his head against Ivan's shoulder.

Ivan put an arm around him, and shook gently. "Do you think about me?"

"Why, of course, Ivan. I worry about your safety all the time, which is why I write to you so often." He poked his chest playfully, "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

Ivan bit his lip, and set Yao's wrist down upon his lap. He held him tighter, but not so much that his porcelain frame would not shatter. Just tight enough for him to not run away.

Ivan supposed that it would just be easier to capture Yao, lock him up in the attic, and force him to do the things he had always wanted to do with him.

But almost immediately, Ivan inwardly smacked himself for having such terrible, vile thoughts. How dare he would even think of harming Yao?

Stupid, stupid Ivan!

He looked out the window and frowned when he saw that a single ugly snowflake had swirled its way into their otherwise pristine carriage. Ivan sighed. Propping his elbow against the windowsill, he spent the rest of the trip staring at the dreadful Siberian scenery, waiting for Yao to show some concern and ask what was wrong.

* * *

><p>"So Yao... Is my house pretty or what?"<p>

"Yes it is, Ivan."

Ivan was rowing a boat down the canal that ran through a city by the name of "St. Petersburg," which Yao couldn't pronounce to save his life. The sky was a light, powdery blue, and no clouds blocked the sun that didn't seem to shine as violently bright here as it did in his home.

The roofs of the buildings were all painted in vivid colours, and lined with intricate carvings of which Yao didn't pretend to understand, but could still appreciate. When they passed by a particularly large building perched upon a hill, Yao saw that Ivan had off his cap. Before the large building was a water fountain, in which stood statues of scantily clad women, who, according to Ivan, were goddesses. Other statues of warriors, cavalry men, and other revolutionaries also stood here and there, and from this, Yao deduced that Ivan _definitely_ was not scared of fighting, as he had been told. In fact, it must be a valuable hobby of his.

The air of the people were generally cheerful, smiling and chatting with each other. The women dressed fancily, with sparkling jewelry and poofy, lacy dresses, while the men wore the iconic European long-tailed coats.

A circle of women giggled amongst each other and flapped their fans flirtatiously, as Ivan rowed by them. They dressed far from his own standards of modesty, but Yao supposed it was only their culture, and knew it was wise to hold his tongue.

"They're staring at us..." Ivan said to Yao worriedly. Blushing, he quickly looked away and buried his nose into his scarf, like how he used to whenever Father put him on the spot.

"Just keep on moving..." Yao grumbled under his breath, fighting the sudden urge to hop over and teach them a lesson, the Chinese way.

"Okay."

Yao couldn't help but wonder if everyone in Ivan's country lived as happily as those women, and bathed in the same luxury. Surely, not everyone was able to afford those diamonds, with which the women did not use sparingly to decorate themselves. _Someone_ must have had to dig them one by one from the ground, until their fingers bled, and Yao had a sneaking suspicion that he may never get to meet the noble person.

What sounded like the bright, metallic ringing of a gong echoed across the expanse.

Yao turned his head, curious. "What was that?"

"Oh, it's the cathedral!"

Yao nodded in acknowledgement. A church, it was, like the temples that he had back home. He supposed that even in the west, they needed sanctuaries where torn spirits may find peace. He snickered.

How he would like to believe that there was life after death. Then, if Yao had a choice, he'd rather be reborn as a tree or something, rather than a country.

Not wanting stubborn Ivan to collapse from exhaustion, Yao gingerly dabbed his sweaty face with his sleeve, and they insisted they took a rest, despite Ivan's protests.

So, they got out of the boat and began walking down on the cobblestone streets of Ivan's capital.

It was warm and sunny, and Yao seemed to be in a content mood. Though, his straight and graceful posture seemed to have waned a bit now, and he looked more natural. Probably it was because Ivan had finally taken Yao outside of his palace, where everyone was just so anal about everything. Ivan remembered when he stayed there as a child, he got scolded for blinking too much or yawning too loudly.

Ivan had to admit, that as much as he loved to visit Yao, he preferred living in his own country. The people up here were a lot easier to deal with. They were so kind to step away from whichever paths Ivan and Yao walked on, especially when Ivan carried his pipe around, which still had spots of blood from last week. That one lady in the bakery even gave Yao a free slice of cake, which must have been that Yao was so charming, and not because Ivan had knocked everything over.

Everyone liked Yao, and Ivan was glad.

"So, Do you like my country?"

"Um..." Yao hesitated for a while, trying to put together the right words for his answer, "Yes, Ivan. Yes I do." He replied, smiling. He rose to his tiptoes and patted Ivan's head, though Yao secretly hoped that Ivan was still small enough to be picked up.

Yao could not help but wonder what secrets laid hidden behind all this opulence, like how it was on his own land. How many people starved to death in the winters? How many wives cried when their husbands were lost in battle?

As beautiful as this place was on the outside, he found it hard to not ask himself these questions. He looked up and smiled at Ivan, who smiled back. _Was Ivan hiding anything behind that sweet, sunny smile of his?_ Yao couldn't help but wonder.

A small hand reached out from a shady corner on the side of the street, and tugged at the hem of Yao's robe.

"Please Miss, spare some change?"

He turned, and saw a little human girl. Though she looked not to be over the age of five, she still seemed much too small for her age. Her golden hair was already falling out of her scalp, before she was even old enough to have grown it to a significant length. The dress she was wearing was throughly drenched of dirt and filth, and didn't seem to keep her warm either.

Giving into the slight nuance in his heart, Yao bent down and reached for his coin pouch. He untied the ribbon and was about to give her some, but soon realized that his own currency was no good here.

"Yao, let's go. I have something else I want to show you!"

"Just a second, Ivan."

He sighed and looked back down at the girl. In the state that she was in now, whether she lived or died tomorrow could be determined easily by anything else happening around her, except for whatever she did with her own feeble hands. It was this kind of contingency that Yao hated most about the world around him, that one could not decide his own fate.

He slowly slid off the golden bangle he wore around his wrist, and placed it in the girl's sunburnt hands.

"It's for you, sweetheart." Yao said. Surely this could feed her for a few more nights.

"Hey grandma!" The girl exclaimed, running back to her grandmother, who was sitting alone against a brick wall, "That pretty lady and her husband gave this to me!"

The old woman was too tired to budge an inch, and instead closed her eyes, which were blind from the start.

* * *

><p>So, here's the new review! I hope you enjoyed reading it! Please review, it'll maybe motivate me to update quicker, xD.<p> 


	27. AN: A letter

Hey dear reader,

No, this is not a new update.

Just a letter I plan to tape to your special little ass. :)

_So..._

I have decided to invoke a couple of changes in regards to the story. The style will still be the same, like, overly descriptive and slow-moving. But, I just don't think my interest in Hetalia, in general, will be able to make it for the four years that I've planned to exclusively work on this story.

I had bitten more than I can swallow, pretty much. The momentum of the story is moving too slowly and densely, and as a university student moving into my third and most crucial year, I don't think I'll be able to take on the overwhelming challenge. Oh, and after I graduate, I'll probably be shipped off halfway across Canada to attend professional school. So, my youthful years will be busy busy busy. :/

BEFORE YOU READ THIS ANY FURTHER. I HAVE NOT GIVEN UP ON WRITING "LOTOPHAGI", AND DON'T PLAN TO UNLESS I AM DEAD OR SUDDENLY ACQUIRED BRAIN TRAUMA TO CAUSE ME TO BELIEVE THAT I LIVE ON MARS AND SPEAK SWAHILI!

!

Now that I got that out of my system, allow me to continue.

Because of my own selfish morality as a writer, I refuse to find someone to help me write Lotophagi, or to which I could transfer my authorship henceforth. So, what I'm going to do is to continue writing, but only focus on the iconic history scenes that I had already conjured in my head. It's really mentally taxing to think of all the fillers in between, you know?

The headcanons that I had already planned out before I even started writing Lotophagi reach all the way up to year 3000, so you'll definitely still find out how the whole story ends, even if I've changed my writing.

But the difference is that the story will move more quickly and be more exciting. More snap-shot like, but at least you wouldn't be waiting four to five years to see if Ivan and Yao's love will have a happy ending or not.

Besides, I'm pretty sure that the story so far is boring to read, as not much has really happened. Everyone wants cannons to explode, drama to happen, and people to die, right? That's why we read stories in the first place! Not for pointless fluff...

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I've always viewed conflict as mandatory in the art of storytelling.

So now, there wouldn't be like 140 freaking chapters. There'll be a lot fewer, and are prehaps easier to read. I'll try to tie them together as well as I can, but just as a warning, after I post the few slow-moving chapters remaining in a few weeks or so, it'll be a roller-coaster onwards.

Opium, WW2, Cold war, and the future would be the key events in my story, and you'll be able to read my headcanons about them a lot sooner this way. The pairings as promised in the description will stay relevant.

Besides, I've counted- I have like 12 Rochu stories that I have to start, and I'm still getting new ideas all the freaking time. So, it's chop-chop for me.

Plus, I also have a bit of an extra-fandom as well... I also like to read books, exercise, do my nails, get into political arguments, shop for shoes, learn languages, play guitar and grab the occasional drink at the bar. (I am also learning to draw... Or, doodle.) Life's busy! ^^'

So yeah, it's not that I'm giving up on Lotophagi. I'm just going to make the plot go much quicker, so I can get this behemoth of a fic DONE with, and can write more Rochu fics for y'all.

I also have a few Fruk and Gerpan one-shots planned out as well... And I plan to write one each for Sweden/Norway, Spamano, and Cuba/Vietnam some day...

But for the most part, I will be a Rochu writer, at least until I get struck by lightning and become paralyzed.

_Why am I so preoccupied with death, and am always thinking of morbid ways for it to happen?_

_I don't know, really... ^^'_

But anyways, you'll hear from me again after I finish posting the next chapter to "Genevieve, I beseech thee." I am personally very excited for this change though, because I'll be able to write about chapters that I actually feel passionate about, and not useless fillers. Hopefully, it'll be equally fun for you to read!

I'm just really looking forward to finish writing my favourite scenes that are just bursting forth in my heart right now, and get onto all of the other Rochu stories that I would like to introduce to the fandom.

But not to worry~ As a writer, I take pride in that I plan to finish every single story I start, and won't start on more than two until I have completed at least one. I think I have the balance thing down pat. I'm not much of an emotional writer than a logical one, so I don't work on behalf of my on-and-off muse as much as others. Like, I take necessary breaks, but am immune to a complete writer's block, if you get my drift.

So, yeah...

Stay tuned for more updates from me!

Love,

Salty Peanuts.


	28. Blasphemy

Hey, I'm back.

Damn, I remember writing this when I was in so deep with the Hetalia fandom.

The fire's cooled down a bit since then, I'm afraid lol.

* * *

><p>"Gil, you've been sitting there for the past two hours. It's time you get up and live and live a little!" Antonio said, putting an arm around Gilbert's shoulders, trying to shake him loose.<p>

Gilbert took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to sound as calm as he could. "Antonio," He began, though he almost never used Spain's full first name, "Get off me before I break your hand off."

"All right! Fine!" Antonio drew his hands back, holding them up defensively, "Geez, I was just trying to help..."

Somehow, Gilbert sounded a lot more menacing like this than on one of his rampages. Instead, his face stayed still like a slab of marble.

Antonio figured it'd be best to leave Gil alone for now, and instead asked the bartender for another round of drinks. He slid a glass of whiskey down the rough wooden table, right beside Gilbert's elbow. The man grunted in thanks, and his borderline maniacal gaze was channelled from Antonio's face to the glass of amber liquid. He looked as if he was about to cast fire upon it, and gave his friend the goosebumps.

Francis strolled over to the two men, and took the other seat beside Gilbert, who shot him a serpentine glare when he also tried putting his arm around his stiff shoulders. Sometimes, Gilbert wondered why he had friends at all.

"Come Gilbert, it is your turn to pick." Francis gestured to the half dozen harlots sprawled around the bar, their bodies all arched in awkwardly sexual poses. His sinister appearance seemed to excite these women, instead of repelling them, as one was even brave enough to blow him a kiss.

Gilbert shook his head and looked away, resisting the urge to retch.

"I'm not feeling up to it today." He stated through gritted teeth.

Francis, apparently immune to the venom in his voice and ignoring the warning stare that Antonio shot him, refused to give in. "Nonsense!" he boldly declared, waving his hand dismissively, "What better way is there to heal the wounds of love but with more artifice? You spend too much of your time with rugged men like us, and you've kept your softer, gentler desires famished for far too long, my friend!"

He gave Gilbert a slimy smirk, and turned the woman sitting at one of the tables, her wavy blonde hair splayed across her shoulders and down her unnaturally fertile chest. He eyed her and flicked his finger, as she stood up and strutted over, her powdered, heavily made-up face displaying a sensual nonchalance.

"Francis, don't do this." Gilbert growled, his voice low and fatal.

Francis ignored him, and said to the woman, "Sweetheart, this gentleman is feeling a little lonely, and he is in desperate of your wonderful talents..."

The woman gave him a smug smirk and turned to Gilbert, who was beginning to look dangerously annoyed. She leaned over and was about to cascade her lean, curvy body upon Gilbert's lap, like she had done to hundreds of customers before him. Out of reflex, he gripped her arm and threw her to the ground. "Get off me, you filthy whore!" He roared, and immediately regretted it.

He placed his hands in the air and stepped back. "Sorry," he said quickly, looking away.

The harlot was in utter shock, and could not say anything. Francis shook his head, and pulled her up from the ground. "I apologize for my friend, miss." He said, looking down at Gilbert disapprovingly and back at her. "If you are still interested, you may serve me instead and I shall pay you double?"

She bit her lip shyly, and gave a slight nod.

France smiled kindly, and patted some dust off her backside. He turned to Gilbert, who had his arms crossed, and was looking down solemnly. "Is that the right way to treat a lady, Gilbert?" Francis asked calmly, as well as he knew how much his friend hated being condescended. Gilbert answered with silence, and without bidding farewell to the scene he had caused, he turned his heel and strode to the door, his slightly tattered cape billowing behind him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Ever since his break with Elizaveta, Gilbert had almost completely shut himself from all social connections. Yes, Francis and Antonio would visit recently, but ever since that incident at the bar, they had refused to take him anywhere until his spirits improved, not that Gilbert wanted to go out much in the first place.

Instead of wasting his time drinking and picking fights with strangers, he instead resorted to actually finishing the stacks of homework assignments that his boss had given him, on time too, for the first time in history. He had spent days in front of his desk, frantically scribbling letters in his unpracticed, childish script, until his quills snapped in half and the ink in the bottle became crusty. As proud and relieved as his boss was, he also became worried about his subordinate's furious productivity. Not that Gilbert ever concerned himself about what his blasted boss thought of him, or anyone else, for that matter.

Nowadays, Gilbert only allowed himself to get drunk on Sunday afternoons, as a ritual to which he had religiously abided as long as he could remember, and refused to forsake. It was always right after the weekly sermon he delivered at the Königsburg cathedral, which fewer and fewer attended as the years went by. But, the fading faith that his people had in the church was the least of his worries, after a long, agonizing week that had drained all of his mental capabilities, leaving him an empty, thoughtless shell.

The agony Gilbert had felt were not due to all of this menial office work. In fact, the reason why he had entrenched himself in the first place was because, as much as he didn't want to admit... he still missed Elizaveta.

With that thought, Gilbert slapped the table, demanding the slightly offended bartender to fill his shot glass. He finished it with a large gulp, savoured the feeling of liquid fire darting down his throat. He coughed, and smacked his face upon the bible he had in his possession, a painfully uncomfortable pillow. His head was pounding, and felt heavy as if it was stuck in a bog.

He didn't know, nor could he figure out whether he got drunk to forget about her, or to be with her.

Even though he probably had every right to, Gilbert couldn't find it in himself to hate Elizaveta. What hurt him most was not that she didn't want to be with him anymore, nor that she had decided to marry Roderich, but that she had lied to him. Having known Liz all his life, and watched her grow from a little girl to a woman, no one in the world knew her better than Gil did, not even herself. When she had told him that she was no longer in love with him, he could see it in the tiniest glint in her eyes, the betwixt most minute stutter in her voice, that she was lying.

Instead, he hated that Elizaveta didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth. He hated the wedding invitation that Roderich had thrown at his feet. But he could never hate _her_, and because she would not have wanted him to, Gilbert couldn't hate Roderich either.

Which meant, if he were to hate at all, Gilbert could only hate himself.

Gilbert couldn't hate himself every day of the week though. He had his day job to do, and could not afford to be distressed.. So, only on Sundays did the little pub down yonder welcome this strange albino man. He never left a tip, and sometimes forgot to pay his bill. But, somehow, the owner found it in himself to let it slide, especially when the man was in tears, pounding his fist against the table, and mumbling the name of the same girl over and over again.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Prussia had been sent on a rather... interesting errand today. His boss called him into his office this morning, and with his feet propped upon the desk, and as he was lighting a cigar, he told Prussia, in a frustratingly casual tone, that he was going to have a little brother.

To be frank, Prussia hated children, and had no idea what to do with them. He had only heard of horror stories from Spain about his experience with having to take care of Romano, and figured if someone as patient as Antonio couldn't handle a little child, his own chances of success was slim to none. France eagerly, a little too eagerly, asked to take custody of him, but Prussia politely declined, and punched him in the gut.

So now, Prussia was walking down the shady forest path, occasionally weaving willow branches away, and sidestepping fallen logs and boulders, trying to look for the place where his boss had said his little brother was waiting. Prussia wondered what he looked like; he hoped he was a handsome kid. But then again, everyone in his family was, except Austria.

His blade sliced effortlessly through a thicket of vines, and made him a clear path into a meadow that was only dotted by a few dwarf trees here and there. At the centre stood a wooden stump, and judging by its sheer width, it was once probably the tallest tree in the whole forest. A group of bright red mushrooms, big and small, had poked their heads out of the soil and huddled themselves in a little circle around it.

A little boy sat upon the stump, and looked comically disproportionate due the its height and width, and his own short stature. His feet dangled above the ground, and he was tapping his boots lightly against the coarse bark while humming a tune, bored. His navy blue cap sat next to him, and he had a head of well-trimmed blond hair.

Thinking that this kid was the one he was looking for, Prussia walked up to him, curiously tilting his head to see what his face looked like. The kid looked up, and when he did, Prussia almost fell on his back in shock, but luckily, didn't.

This person looked exactly like someone Prussia had met many years before. The person, or should he say, _kid_ in question supposed to have died in war. But, he had the same facial features and hair colour than the one sitting in front of him. Now that he thought of it, when he met this person, he was wearing the exact same uniform! Prussia wondered what kind of dirty trick the Devil had in his sleeve now.

"Holy Rome?" Prussia uttered.

"Who's this 'Holy Rome' you speak of? I am Germany." He even had the same ambitious, self-righteous air that Holy Rome did, as spooky as it was.

"Then why do you look exactly like Holy Rome?"

"Do you dare to question me?" He countered coldly.

Prussia stepped back, and bowed, while trying to stifle his giggles. "My apologies, _sir_." He said, unwilling impose a bad first impression.

Fortunately, Germany failed to catch Prussia's sarcasm. He picked up the tree branch that he had left aside started poking at the ground, which apparently required undivided focus.

Prussia walked over and knelt down beside him.

"Wutcha doin'?"

"Killing ants." He replied, as he shoveled another bit of loose dirt, trying to bury an ant hill. But, the ants, as smart as they were, always dug themselves a way out, rendering his efforts futile. Growling in frustration, he poked at the dirt with more stubborn ferocity, which served to squash the insects more than it buried them.

Prussia shook his head. "That's not how you kill 'em," he sniggered, "If you do that, they'll just climb right back out. You're wasting your time, kid."

Germany's eyes narrowed. "Then how do _you_ do it?"

Taking out a small silver flask from his pocket, Prussia flashed his signature grin. "You have to grab them where it hurts, dummy. Like this-"

He unscrewed the cap, and poured a good amount of hard liquor into the hole, making the poor insects squirm more frantically. He took out a box of matches, lit one, and tossed it upon the ant hill.

He gestured to the thin sheet of flames that burst into life immediately. "See? Isn't this more fun?"

Germany gave no reply, but continued to stare intently, somewhat awestruck. Prussia, who failed to see any poetic significance in mere burning fire, gave it a few seconds before stomping it out with his foot. "Come on, let's go home." He ruffled the Germany's head, and put his cap on.

"Fine." The boy grumbled, and put his hand in Prussia's and allowed himself to be pulled down from the stump he was sitting on.

"You know you're supposed to be my brother now, right, Holy Rome?" Prussia asked, as they were walking away.

"I am not Holy Rome!' He huffed.

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

Germany couldn't remember anything else, other than being told that his human name was Ludwig, and that he had to wait on the stump until, "an albino with a bad attitude came to pick him up." But, now that he thought of it, he remembered that he didn't think too highly of this man, though he couldn't place exactly where and when he had met him before.

* * *

><p>I told you I would update, lol.<p>

I'm on a roll tonight. xD

I don't know when the next one will be, but hopefully soon. :)


	29. ,His Lair

Hey there, hope you enjoy this update! (I wrote it half a year ago.)

* * *

><p>Natalia was a very beautiful woman. Her skin was the colour of fresh, untainted snow, and her pale blonde, shoulder-length locks glowed with Slavic pride.<p>

She took the hearts of many. Men from every corner of the continent had knelt in front of her, bearing gifts in vain attempts to woo her. If she was having a good day, they would be lucky enough to have been sent back with a few broken bones. If she wasn't, she'd call her brother Ivan, who would be more than happy to tear out their throats with his bare hands.

Some wondered whether she had a heart at all. Her frigid gaze was petrifying, and her razor-thin smile could crack a mirror.

But, they were wrong. Natalia Arlovskaya had a heart, she just loved her brother with all of it.

Over the years, Natalia watched Ivan grow from a boy to a man. A strong man, the strongest of them all. She had watched him as he spread his wings like a hawk from one sea to another, and mercilessly slew anyone who stood in his path. His stance was as firm as a mountain, his flag billowing in the winds, unwavered by those western demons that often overstayed their welcome.

All would bow down to Ivan and kiss his feet, or feel his icy wrath. Indeed, that was the only way. It was either _they_ starved, or she and her big brother would starve. Natalia could not bear to have her and Ivan left alone and hungry again, shivering in the cold like two rabbits.

Father had left him, and so did Yekaterina, but Natalia vowed she never would. She promised she would stay by Ivan's side until the end of time. Yes, that way, both of them would be happy.

The door clicked open, and Natalia immediately shot her head that way, grabbing her dagger by her bed stand.

A head poked through the door.

"Um... Sis'?"

"Brother!" Natalia's grimace immediately softened upon seeing her dear brother. She dropped the dagger onto the floor with a clang, slid off her bed, and ran to meet him halfway.

"Where have you been?" She asked. But, before Ivan had the chance to answer, she draped an arm over his shoulder, tipped his chin, and whispered seductively into his ear, "I've been waiting for you to come back to lavish me, Vanya..."

As she leaned over to kiss his cheek, his body became as stiff as a washing board. She figured the reason must be due to all the stress he'd had to suffer for the few months. Natalia made a mental note to make arrangements to give him shoulder massages, or at least make Toris put more vodka into his coffee. Yes, that would loosen him up quite well...

"Um, Bela..." Ivan squeaked, a fat bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "You mind letting go of me now?"

"No!" She shrieked so loudly that the windows rattled a little. She hugged him even tighter to her body so that they almost became one.

"Um, okay..." Ivan whimpered defeatedly, "How about now?"

"No."

"...Now?"

Natalia hissed, and let him go.

She had witnessed the extent of his anger, and the ambit of his wrath upon anyone who irked him the slightest. When luring Vanya into her arms, she had learned to use tenderness as opposed to blades and nails.

Ivan huffed and puffed, and finally caught his breath. "Um, Bela?"

"Yes, brother?"

"I came to tell you that I'm leaving, and won't be back for a while. I have left Mrs. Nabakov the recipes for your weekly meal plans, and ordered in a new group of maids to you wouldn't get lonely. Uh, one of them even knows how to sew. You know how much I have wanted you to take up that new hobby... Instead of throwing scary knives at the wall in your spare time... So, um..." He giggled nervously, "You should be happy, da?"

_And not come look for me?_ He added in his head.

Natalia raised a dangerous eyebrow. "Where are you going this time, brother?!" She demanded furiously.

Ivan swore he could see his own name carved into her serpentine fangs.

"Well," he poked his fingers and looked down, "I am just going to visit Yao, to see how he is doing," he said, though he probably shouldn't have.

_...Yao..._ That name sounded familiar, but Natalia somehow couldn't put a face to it. She wondered what kind of a mother possessed by a demon would name her child such a strange name, and how Ivan would have come to know someone like that.

Then came her epiphany- Yao was that crossdresser she had met when in China that one time, the one who taught her how to groom her hair and gave her a ribbon.

Belarus frowned a little. He was very beautiful, and unfortunately, he didn't live within knife's range.

Come to think of it, Ivan left home very often nowadays. Surely, he didn't travel all the way across the continent just to visit that one person?

Nevertheless, Natalia deemed it unwise to make unnecessary enemies, and began a well-versed reply to her brother's comment. "Oh I see. Well, I do hope you enjoy yourself." She put on her most dazzling smile. She placed a hand upon his broad chest, and said, "At least the empire in China doesn't have to live in constant fear of the Decemberists..."

It only took a millisecond for Ivan's face to fall.

"_Those what?!_" he roared like a beast, making Natalia retreat her hands immediately. She fell back onto the bed against his towering form.

Natalia smirked inwardly. Now, she had finally persuaded him to stay.

"D-Decemberists," she repeated, but could not help but stutter a bit, "I overheard a reliable source telling that they are planning a revolt."

Immediately, she felt a thick, rough hand pick her up by the neck, and not wasting a second, her pretty head crashed into the headboard. "From whom?" Her brother demanded, his voice deep and rumbling.

She had seen this all before. There was not a drop of fear in Natalia's eyes, nor was there a sliver of doubt in Ivan's that he would strangle her if she didn't heed to his demand. "That man who cleans our floors, the one with the large nose. He is a spy for them, and I followed him to one of his meetings when I went to the market today..."

Ivan, satisfied, released his claws from his sister's neck, leaving her gasping for breath. He turned his back, and took a deep breath. A bird chirped from outside the window, and the splashing sounds of the front yard fountains trickled into the deathly silent room.

A few silent seconds later, Ivan looked at Natalia and said, in a restrained, albeit gentle tone, "I'll be leaving soon, Bela. If you want to live, then you wouldn't follow me, nor take a single step outside of the Palace... _Understand?_"

Reluctantly, she nodded, disappointed that she had failed. As much as she wanted to follow him to China, she knew that if he found out, she would be dead within minutes.

She admitted loss this time. But, Natalia knew she had forever to make her brother hers.

Ivan smiled. He liked it when people obeyed.

"Okay! I'll see you soon, and I'll bring you back a gift this time!" He sang cheerfully, kissed Natalia on the head, and hopped up from the bed. Giggling, he waved goodbye to her, and skipped out the room, making the contents of her jewelry box shiver from the little earthquake his feet concocted.

* * *

><p>It was the same routine over and over again, every day at the same time and place for the past hundred years. Every single morning, everyone in the royal court would come and meet in the front hall to tithe the emperor with flattery, blow up his ego to unnecessary proportions, and maybe talk about a few national issues, if time permitted.<p>

Yao was deeply skeptical about whether it was necessary to hold such an opulent gala every single day, as if the old, wrinkly man sitting next to him, his boss, was some deity to be worshipped. Everyone bowed to him as he sat on his throne, and anyone who didn't held the threat of being beheaded in an instant.

Well, Yao figured that if everyone around him declared that he was going to live for ten thousand years, he probably would come to believe it. Besides, if every aspect of his life was enshrouded by jade and gold, and and florid smiles of his concubines, even the most bitter cynics would be seduced into believing this ridiculous claim about his longevity.

And, never would Yao expect that one of Ivan's unexpected visits would be his saviour from eye-gouging, hair-pulling boredom.

"Yao!" Yelled a voice from down the hall, thickly accented with Russian.

Yao sighed. He thought that maybe next time, Ivan could make a slightly more _humble_ entrance.

The second Ivan stumbled through the open gates, a wave of soldiers threw themselves on him in an attempt to capture the intruder, which he shrugged off like a case of fleas. He frolicked past armada of government officials all staring wide-eyed at this sight to behold- a large foreign man wearing an intimidating army jacket, with a chubby face and a disproportionate nose running at breakneck speed, while rudely calling out the personal, forbidden name of the second most important person in the whole kingdom without being struck by lightning.

Despite the whispers between everyone in the room, Yao decided to look on the bright side. At least he was going to have the rest of today off.

"Yao!" Ivan said again, calling out the name of his love, who stood up before the other could bury his face into his lap, like he did multiple times before.

Instead, Ivan ran up the steps and gave Yao a huge bear hug, much to the shock of everyone in the room, and the utter resentment of the emperor, enraged that his daily moment of glory had been snuffed out.

Yao had been too used to Ivan popping up at the most random, inappropriate times to be mad at the man. Every single boss Yao had had for the past few centuries all learned to be acquainted with, and accustomed to Ivan's visits.

But, it was Ivan's debut in front of this particular emperor. Not that Yao was worried anymore. His boss can't do anything to harm Ivan, for they cannot afford to have a pointless war waged against them by their northern neighbors. But, he wasn't about to take any chances.

"Let's go..." Yao mouthed to Ivan, tilting his head slightly over to the red-faced emperor, to whom he would have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

"Okay!" Ivan squealed. Grabbing his hands, he lead them down the hall and outside, as everyone's heads followed them out the door, with their mouths agape but silent.

"Such insolence!" Said the chancellor, bristling with insult, "Your majesty, he-"

The emperor took a deep, shuddering breath, and sat back down. To lose his temper in front of dozens of his officials was not first on his list of priorities.

* * *

><p>After a while, Yao finally stopped protesting Ivan carrying him like a bride out of the palace, onto the streets, and to the countryside.<p>

"Ivan Braginsky."

"Da?"

"Put me down. Now."

"Da!"

Ivan's stone-like arms lowered Yao slowly and gently onto the grass, sticking his tongue out to the corner of his mouth in undivided focus, as to not shatter the other man's porcelain frame.

"Thank you very much." Yao said curtly. Not particularly glad that he had been laid onto a field of dandelions, he sat up, pouting, and brushed away some fluff on his dress.

Reaching over and peeling off the bug that got stuck between the shoulder tassells on Ivan's coat, Yao began to half-heartedly scold him. "Ivan... It was very rude for you to have interrupted my boss like that, and it wasn't nice!" He said, giving his nose a little poke. "How do you think I am going to explain this to him tomorrow?"

"Um..." Ivan dropped his mouth open and looked up, actually thinking of an answer, despite the rhetorical nature of Yao's previous question. "I suppose you can tell him that I am your boyfriend! That would work well..." He smiled innocently, tilting his head at an odd angle.

"I can think of a thousand reasons why saying that is a bad idea."

"Why, because you want me to be your husband instead?" He suggested hopefully.

"No!" Yao squeaked, quickly looking away. The nerve of this child!

"Ivan... Let me ask you something..." Yao said, a few moments later, after his cheeks cooled down a bit.

"Yes?"

"Why do you come visit me all the time, even when I never visit you?"

Ivan sighed, and brought Yao closer to him. Yao quickly looked around, making sure that no one else was nearby, and leaned his head into Ivan's chest. He admired how shiny his buttons were.

"Because I love you..." Ivan replied, with same air as how he would comment the weather outside.

Yao's heart did a happy hop from hearing that. As much as he wanted to pry Ivan's arms apart from his shoulders, he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he pressed on, "And what else?"

Ivan sighed again. "Well, I suppose it's because life at home really sucks." He said said wistfully, playing with Yao's hair, slowly and accidentally untangling his elegant updo. "No matter how hard I try, I can never please my boss, nor the people who live in my country. My boss is so mean to me, and my people hate what I have done for them. They all want to rebel, and kill my boss and I, no matter how nice we try to be to them..."

He rolled up his pants, revealing a large gash across the inside of his left thigh. "See? It still hurts and bleeds all the time!" Ivan said, despite that it had stopped throbbing days ago.

Yao, who had enough medical experience to tell in an instant that he was lying, decided to play along. "Aww, you poor poor thing!" Yao cooed. Ivan nodded, having failed to smell his sarcasm.

"The rebels did this to me..."

"Aw, that must be horrible!" Yao said in a faked motherly tone, while trying to stifle laughter, "Does it hurt right now, sweetheart?"

"Yes! Very much!" He replied earnestly, his eyes all wide and watery, " Yao," he whined, shaking the smaller man's shoulders, "will you kiss it better?"

"Um, _no_..." Yao said, a little too quickly, swiftly turning his torso away from Ivan's adorable, yet spine-tingling smile.

"Please?" Ivan begged, taking Yao into his arms again and nuzzling him, despite his protesting, "I won't ask for anything else..."

Yao huffed in defeat. "Fine," he said. Tucking a long strand of his hair behind his ear, Yao bent down to brush his lips lightly against Ivan's already healed scar. "Happy now?" he asked, though he knew that probably wouldn't be enough for him.

Looking up at his smirk, Yao's fears were confirmed.

He leaned over and smooched, tapping the side of his lip. "And here too..."

"No!"

"Why not?"

Yao looked around, trying to think of a witty excuse. "Um, because I don't think you deserve it today..."

Ivan's smile turned upside down. "Why?" He whined. Yao wasn't sure whether he was genuinely hurt, or faking it.

Yao crossed his arms, and glared. "Because you were a bad, bad boy, having crashed my boss's morning court! And now, I'm going to have a fun time explaining to him why I'm friends with a big scary monster like you!" He said jokingly, pouting and sticking out his tongue.

Ivan froze, as bright violet eyes narrowed in utter shock.

"...O-Oh." He managed to utter. He turned away from Yao silently and drooped his head, staring down at his feet. Well, at least his boots were shiny.

"... Ivan, are you alright?"

Yao knew he must have pinched a nerve, and cursed his own sharp tongue.

Ivan didn't answer, and instead stood up. Yao tugged at his sleeve. "Oh come on, I didn't mean what I said!" He giggled nervously. "You know that, right?"

He began to sadly limp away, without even looking back at Yao, who followed behind. "Are you mad at me?" He asked Ivan.

"No, not really," was his mumbling response. "I just feel a little sick. A cold, I think." He sniffled and wiped his nose. "Uh, I'll come back some other day, Yao. Just don't follow me. Sorry..."

He didn't even say goodbye before leaving Yao alone under the sun, standing in a field of dandelions, frustrated, perhaps at himself.

* * *

><p>Ivan wondered, was he really a bad person?<p>

He was very nice to Bela, or as nice as he could be to her. He gave her a place to live, protected her from the bad guys, and kept her company for as long as she wanted. Yes, he would get angry at his sister, but it was only because sometimes, she was very hard to deal with. When she was around, Ivan sometimes felt legitimately concerned for his safety (and virginity). But, even though he knew he could just snap her in half, he didn't, because he was a nice person!

Also, he wasn't too bad to the three colourful little friends he had recently made, Toris, Eduard, and Raivis. He always fed them at least once a day, unless if he forgot of course. He kept them safe in his home, and let them out for a breather once a week. Ivan did this only so they wouldn't run away and get caught by the wild beasts in his backyard. Siberia was no place for little guys like those three.

That was what friends did, right?

If only Yao could see just how much of a good boy he had been. Maybe then, he wouldn't call him a "monster".

With that thought, Ivan stepped onto the scaffold that was conveniently located at St. Petersburg's town square, where everyone liked to gather for warmth on a dreary January morning. His hulk-like feet thumped across the path that had been cleared for him, and upon the creaking, splintery wooden steps. The crowd fell silent, either in fear of the man standing before them, or pay their respects to Russia.

The general bowed meekly upon seeing him, and quickly gestured for executioner to withhold his efforts. A priest, of course, was also at the scene. He made the sign of the cross, and maintained his mannered silence.

"Mr. Russia, this..."

Russia walked past the general, and turned his gaze to the men crouching under the three loops of rope. Despite that they had just seen him, they kept their reticence and continued to look down at the filthy, blood-stained floor.

No matter, Ivan came here to play Jesus Christ. He walked over to the man on the left, and decided that he liked him. Therefore, he was going to die last.

Ivan turned to the general, and told him to release the criminal.

"But, s-sir... He is with the rebels, and we cannot afford to-"

Russia grinned sweetly, bending down in front of the shorter, middle-aged man. "You are really brave, little guy." He patted him on head, like father to son, "Standing up to me like that... Maybe I'll kill you next?"

The general, as cruel and corrupted as he was during his day job, shrieked and fell to his knees. "No! No, I-I'm sorry, sir..." He shuffled closer, and hugged Russia's legs. "Please have mercy!"

"Okay, if you say so!" Russia gave him a light kick, and he fell back in an almost-somersault. Everyone on the crowd laughed. Ivan giggled along with everyone else, clapping his hands.

Ivan dragged the prisoner down the scaffold by a chain around his neck, and as he did, the crowd cheered and hooted at his heroism.

He took the prisoner out to the streets, people avoiding them as they walked by. The man kept a safe distance from Ivan, and stayed completely silent unless to give short, clipped answers to Ivan's light-hearted attempts at conversation.

They stopped at an abandoned alley way. It was dank, smelly, and let in enough light for the prisoner to see a pair of violet orbs that flashed every few seconds.

Suddenly, under the violet orbs opened cracked open a line of sharp, pearly white teeth, as a wave of maniacal giggles squirmed into his ears.

"I heard you Decemberists were causing some trouble in the town square today. That does not make me very happy."

The man shook his head and chuckled. It was quite funny, and terribly ironic, that _him_, of all people, had brought this up. A man with gold and diamonds decorating his chest, and wearing boots made from the skin torn right from slaves' backs.

"You may have won this time," he growled under his breath, with a kind of menace that even surprised himself, "But the workers will rise again. Just you wait!"

He figured if he was going to die soon, he might as well as say his last words like they were etched in stone.

Ivan's face, in turn, stayed as pleasant and serene as it had ever been. It frightened the man more than if Ivan had unleashed his infernal rage upon him like the beast he knew he was.

"I think it would be good if you were more quiet, little man." Ivan doted, batting his eyelashes endearingly, "I'm having a lot of fun right now, and I don't want to kill you so soon..."

He winced from his touch, his eyes widening in fear, or perhaps, disgust. "You nobles can't leave us in the cold forever..." He continued, desperately trying to maintain the integrity of his voice, "And you can kill me, a worthless little spy, but don't expect us to just be your slaves for all eternity!"

Suddenly, he felt a fist crash into the side of his face, as he fell backwards from the blow, hitting his skull against the brick wall.

"Haha! I warned you to be quiet!" Ivan said, sticking out his tongue and wagging his head.

The man recovered as quickly as he could, his head thumping in fiery-hot pain. He spat a couple of his teeth into the dirt along with some blood. He looked up and dared to utter, while panting haggardly, "Is that the best you can do?"

Ivan, who was busy licking his knuckles clean of blood, looked up, and blinked. "Um, probably not..." He mumbled, shrugging, "To be honest, you're the favourite person I have played with in a while."

And, Ivan wasn't lying at all, because lying was bad. When he delivered that first blow to his head, something in him just... snapped, like a cane, or someone's spine. Blood was pounding in his ear, and he could no longer restrain the gleeful giggles bubbling out of his mouth.

The last time he felt this excited about anything was when he kissed Yao for the first time, hundreds of years ago.

The voices in his head were screaming at him, "_More more more more! We want more blood!_" And Ivan saw no reason why their cries should go unheard. It was not like they were asking him to sit down and do math homework or anything.

The man, who was not a bit disheartened, continued furthermore, "This land, this cold, wretched place we live in, is what hell really is!" He shook his head, and smiled bitterly, "And you sir, do you know what you are? You're the devil himself!"

Ivan frowned at the insult. Humph, if this guy didn't want to play with him, he didn't have to be so mean...

"All you nobles do is use our efforts to build your palaces and churches, and toss us away like filth after you're done!" He coughed and spat on the ground, "Anyone who disregards justice like this, anyone who treats humankind like livestock, are the real scum of the earth!"

"You're a monster, Mr. Russia." The man uttered, finally.

"_Silence!_" Ivan roared. The man laid on the ground on which he had been cast, too weary, too apathetic, to move a muscle. The lion had finally broken out of his cage, so to speak.

"_You're wrong, wrong!_" Ivan hollered at the top of his lungs,shaking his head furiously. "_I'm not like that! There is no way I'm like that!_" He kicked the man's stomach over and over again until his ribs broke and his vomit turned bloody.

No! Yao would never think that of him! Yao loved Ivan as much as he love him back, and Bela, and everyone in his house, loved him too! They were all his friends, and they were all going to be warm and happy together! This stupid guy is _wrong_!

Seconds turned to minutes, and soon enough, who was once Ivan's servant and a spy for the Decemberists, had been reduced to an unrecognizable pile of bones and flesh. He continued to maul at him, tearing from limb to limb, ripping him into bits.

After his rage had been spent, and he ran out of strength, Ivan ran out onto the street without looking back at what a pile of great work he had done. That afternoon, the citizens of St. Petersburg caught the rather peculiar sight of a young man running home, crying like a child, whose jacket, cape, and pants were all covered in fresh blood.

**TBC**

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

- The Decemberists were founded in the early 1800's by a group of Russian imperial guards who wanted to overthrow the current Tsarist system, abolish serfdom, and promote equality before the law. They revolted on Dec. 26, 1825, after the death of Tsar Alexander I, but unfortunately, their efforts were stopped by the loyal troops, having been outnumbered three to one.

In January 1826, the last of the Decemberist leaders were caught and sent to St. Petersburg and hung publically. It was the last public trial in Russian imperial history.


End file.
